


If the World Was Ending (You'd Come Over, Right?)

by asexual-fandom-queen (writeordietrying)



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Developing Relationship, F/M, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Temporary Eddie Diaz/Shannon Diaz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21553666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeordietrying/pseuds/asexual-fandom-queen
Summary: Three months after leaving for Ireland, Abby comes home. A week later, Eddie starts at the 118.
Relationships: Abby Clark/Eddie Diaz, Evan "Buck" Buckley/Abby Clark, Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz, Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz/Abby Clark
Comments: 136
Kudos: 299





	1. Arrivals

**Author's Note:**

> I love Buddie, I really do, but I'll probably always be salty that Buck and Abby never got their happily ever after. So, I started thinking about what Buck/Abby/Eddie would be like as an OT3. Then this happened. 
> 
> I'm not sure how many chapters this will work out to be, but I'm hoping for updates once a week, schedule depending. Additional tags will be added as the story progresses. 
> 
> If you like this fic, please let me know by leaving kudos and comments down below!
> 
> Title is from the song " _If the World Was Ending_ " by JP Saxe feat. Julia Michaels. Spotify suggested it to me half-way through doing up the outline for this fic and nearly knocked me on my ass with how well it fits, so what was I to do?

Buck’s hand is hot and uncomfortably clammy, wrapped around the plastic-sheathed stem of a bouquet of roses from the florist stall at  _ Arrivals _ . 

There’s never a time when  _ LAX _ isn’t buzzing with activity, but the usual cacophony has died down to a dull  _ hum _ since the last of the passengers from the airport’s most recent flight have gathered their bags from the carousel and moved out into the warm, balmy air of a summer night in the City of Angels. 

Buck shifts nervously from foot to foot, passing the roses from his left hand to his right, and wiping the sweat from his palm against the front of his jeans. He stifles the urge to pull his cell phone from his pocket to double-check his messages, in case he missed something, or read something wrong. Panic beads sweat across his forehead, and he licks his lips, then purses them, trying to tamp the feeling down. 

It’s fine. He’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. 

_ This is really happening. _

His thoughts must act as a summons, because straight on the heels of Buck calming the anxious pounding in his chest, the security doors slide open, and he’s sharing space with the person he loves more than anything in the world for the first time in three months. 

“Hey,” Abby says softly, half-running, half-shuffling over to Buck, bewteen the weight of her wheeled suitcase and the pack on her back. Her hair, pale red and wavy, is piled high on her head in a mess of a bun, face bare and eyes tired. She’s even more beautiful than Buck remembers, and he falters his first few steps before getting his legs on board to meet Abby halfway. 

“I’m sorry I took so long,” she continues, teeth nibbling nervously at her bottom lip. “There was a problem with my bag, and–” 

She doesn’t get a chance to finish her apology before Buck has her swept up in a kiss, bouquet of roses falling uselessly to the floor as he cups her face with both hands. Abby melts into him, backpack sliding off her shoulder and putting the roses to a quick, painless death as it lands atop them, the sharp, high sound of crinkling cellophane mixing with the dull  _ thud _ of the heavy bag hitting the ground. 

Buck can hardly stand to take his lips off hers, but more than he doesn’t want to stop kissing Abby, he needs to see her, needs to look into her eyes and see her staring back at him, real and whole and  _ here _ . 

He tries to look anything other than emotionally wrung out when her gaze meets his, but doesn’t pull it off judging from the way Abby’s brow furrows and tears pool at the edges of her clear, blue eyes. 

“Thank you,” Abby whispers, soft and earnest as her fingers flex and curl reflexively around the curve of his biceps, holding him close. “For waiting for me.” 

She means about the bags, but at the same time, so much more than just the bags. Buck can hear it in her voice, that she’s sorry she was away so long, that she hates that she needed to go in the first place. It’s a resigned kind of sadness they played out before, all those months ago when Buck dropped her off at  _ LAX, _ and that they’ve relived every day since. A necessary kind of pain. A kind of pain that makes you grow. 

Buck thinks about a version of reality that demanded more pain, a circumstance in which Abby needed more space, more growth. One where she never came back to LA and Buck never got to see her, not even one last time to say goodbye. The thought sends a deep, shooting ache through the centre of his chest, and he knows, even thinking about it fleetingly, that he would have recovered, that he could have found peace again, and love again, but he is so,  _ so _ grateful to be living in this reality, a reality where he doesn’t have to do those things. One where Abby comes home and everything is soft, and sweet, and easy again. 

“Always,” Buck tells her, and he means it. 

* * *

Buck tries not to let the 118’s lukewarm reaction to Abby’s return raise his hackles. 

He knows they’re his friends, his teammates, his  _ family, _ and they’re in his corner. They’ve watched him hurt and ache and long for a woman who traded their quiet, domestic life together for the fleeting taste of a long-suppressed dream halfway across the world. He knows it did little to endear her to them, that she’ll have to work to get back into their good graces, but he still wishes it could all happen  _ faster.  _ He wishes that Bobby would be less clipped and formal when she comes by the station to bring Buck his phone, forgotten that morning on their nightstand. That Chimney would soften his glare, and that Hen would thaw her cold shoulder. 

He’s fallen back to an easy rhythm with Abby, like no time has passed at all. They make meals, and watch TV, and have sex, and nothing feels different than it did before she left, except for perhaps a lightness to her shoulders that Buck’s never seen, and a new sense of gratitude steeped into every second they’re together. 

Buck doesn’t need time, but the 118 does, and if he’s learned anything in the past three months, while Abby’s been away, it’s that he can be patient with the people he loves. That doesn’t mean their hostility doesn’t needle uncomfortably under Buck’s skin every time he pulls into work, every time someone laughs too loud at a joke, or stretches out too languidly on the couch, like they’re not actively hurting Buck, not disregarding his feelings in favour of their own.

Things at the 118 are tense, but they’re normal. Routine. 

Until a week later, when the new recruit shows up. 

Buck is so in his own head, between the ebb of resentment buzzing like gnats in his bones and the latest outlet he’s found to distract himself from the noise – the annual sexy firefighter calendar, and all the rigorous exercise required to get him into proper shape for it – he doesn’t notice him around the station at first, until Chimney points him out. 

“Okay,  _ that _ is a beautiful man,” Chim says, and Hen’s assent, a murmured, “where’s the lie? And I like girls,” is nearly lost to Buck over the sudden rush of blood in his ears. 

Buck’s never been one to deny his attraction to anyone – girls, guys, people who are a little of both, or entirely neither – but since being with Abby, the sizzle of attraction for anyone other than her has been notably muted. It comes as a shock to Buck’s unacclimated system, like the hit of a livewire, when he turns to look at the new recruit over his shoulder and feels a deep, electric zing of desire curl low in his belly. 

Sharp, well-defined abs carve across the long expanse of the man’s smooth, tan skin like they’re chiseled in stone. Buck follows the v-shaped line of his hips and the small trail of coarse, dark hair under his belly button to a trim, narrow waist and lean, powerful thighs. He feels his mouth go dry and tries to push out the image of taut, straining muscles pressed into the mattress beneath the weight of Buck’s own bulk as soon as it enters his mind. 

He tries passing the way he suddenly feels so completely off-kilter as jealousy when he asks, “who the hell is that?”

“That’s Eddie Diaz,” Bobby replies. “New recruit. Graduated top of his class just this week. The guys over at station six were dying to have him, but I convinced him to join us.” 

And Buck can’t quite put his finger on why, but something about that stings. Abby’s been back a whole week, and she’s still on tenuous ground. Meanwhile, Eddie’s all of twelve to twenty-four hours out of training and Bobby’s chomping at the bit to welcome him to the 118. 

“What do we need him for?” Buck finds himself snapping, before he can think better of it. The chorus of laughter he’s met with doesn’t do much to soothe the raw, exposed ends of his nerves. 

“He’s served multiple tours in Afghanistan as an army medic,” Bobby says. “Guy’s got a silver star. It’s not like he’s wet behind the ears.” 

Buck bites his tongue as he feels his irritation rise. Abby’s been his girlfriend for over a year. But maybe history only matters at the 118 when people want it to. 

“Come on,” Bobby says, like he can’t feel the tension rolling off Buck in waves, or like he can and feigning ignorance is the best way he can think of to diffuse it. “I’ll introduce you to him. He likes to be called Eight Pack.” 

The gentle ribbing lands well with Chim and Hen, but only makes the confusing cocktail of arousal and misplaced resentment churn all the more violently in Buck’s gut. He tries to keep the animosity out of his voice when Bobby introduces him, tries to keep his grip loose and casual when he reaches out to shake Eddie’s hand, but he knows from the pinched, wary expression on Eddie’s face he fails on both counts. 

They go on to butt heads on their first call together, and Buck wants to stop being so confrontational with Eddie, wants to stop escalating the tension between them, to stop making things worse, but every time the others yield to him, respect his opinion, follow his lead, when he’s done nothing but show up, when they can’t extend the same courtesy to Abby, someone they know – someone Buck  _ loves _ – another thorn sticks him in the side until he’s impossibly prickly and definitely coming off like a jackass. 

Buck tries to be rational, tries to avoid taking his anger out on Eddie when it’s the rest of the team’s actions he’s upset about, but he can’t fully convince himself it’s not at least partially Eddie’s fault. He’s letting the 118 defer to him. He’s letting them be so damn casual and  _ chummy _ . He was a soldier. He should understand how a hierarchy works, how respect is earned, and that time served  _ matters _ . Maybe it’s harsher than he deserves – and certainly a higher standard than Buck himself ever measured up to as a new trainee – but Eddie’s older, more experienced. He should know that making good with Buck is on him, that Buck shouldn’t be the one to have to bend over backward. 

What feels like an eternity later, he finishes his shift – without taking Eddie’s head off, thank god for small favours – and picks Abby up at work, glad the stars haven’t lost their knack of lining up their schedules while Abby was away. She’s been back on the job a few days, positions for 9-1-1 operators never in short supply, at the same dispatch center, the same desk. It’s a hard line of work that leaves frequent vacancies. Abby told him the night before, cuddled under the sheets with her head pillowed against his chest, she’s not sure they even managed to fill her position in the three months she was away, though she feels too guilty about leaving so abruptly to ask for sure. 

Abby looks tired, but not haggard, when she slides into the passenger seat of Buck’s jeep, an unfortunate sign she’s had one of the better days people in her line of work are likely to get. Buck takes her hand over the center console and massages it absently with the pad of his thumb while he asks about her shift. As expected, she tells him about a string of bad calls – of people whose loved ones died before help could arrive, people who hung up as soon as it did, leaving her in the lurch – interspersed with a few good ones, like the woman she talked through helping her wife give birth when the ambulance wasn’t able to arrive in time. 

“I heard him cry,” Abby says with a dreamy, faraway sound in her voice. “They had a little boy.” 

“You did a great job, you know that?” Buck tells her, casting a quick but serious glance in her direction before returning his focus to the slow-moving traffic and the glow of break-lights ahead. “What you do? It’s so important.” 

Abby smiles softly, turning his palm over where their fingers are intertwined to kiss the back of his hand. “Please,” she says softly, lips close enough to brush against his skin. “Save something for when I have a bad day.” 

Buck chuckles, eyes staying focused on the road, but she must read the tension in his shoulders, because she adds, “kinda like you’re having a bad day right now.” 

Buck immediately tries to deny it. “What?” he says, sputtering and indignant. “What makes you think I had a bad day?” 

“Because you’re rigid as a board,” Abby replies. “And usually when you have a good day, you’re too excited to tell me about it to let me get all the way through mine.” 

Buck flushes into his hairline. “Sorry,” he says. 

Abby waves him off. “It’s fine,” she says. “I think it’s cute you’re so excitable.” 

She turns their hands again, placing a delicate kiss against the center knuckle of his middle finger where it protrudes above the rest. “Please?” she asks. “I wanna know what’s on your mind.” 

Buck shrugs dismissively, but betrays the movement by huffing out a long, heavy breath. “So,” he says. “There’s this new guy at work.” 

“Uh-huh,” Abby says slowly. Buck pictures the wrinkles deepening on her forehead as she furrows her brow, nose scrunched up in a way that raises the top of her glasses above her eyebrows. He doesn’t dare look away from the road, knows from experience that watching her make that face, it’s impossible to take his eyes off her. 

“Is he having a hard time?” she asks. 

Buck frowns. “No,” he admits, a little bitterly, though he tries to keep the acid out of his voice. “He’s ex-army. Used to be a medic. He’s good, actually.” 

“What, is he an asshole?” Abby asks. 

That startles a laugh out of Buck, and he relaxes back into his seat. “If anything I was the asshole,” he admits. “He’s just– he’s doing really well, fitting in with the team. It feels like it’s too easy. Like, what is it about him that’s so likable? Or is that just a red flag that we’re missing something?” 

“The LAFD vetting process is extremely rigorous,” Abby says. “You know that.” 

Buck sees her pointed look from the corner of his eye and nods to assure her he does. It wasn’t so long ago he was going through the process himself. He knows they’re not missing any glaring issues from Eddie’s past, and that the guy probably is every bit as capable and as  _ personable _ as he seems. In the silence of the car, with Abby, his hands still held tight in hers, it’s easier to admit that. 

“I’m frustrated that they’re still mad at you,” Buck says, his words clipped. Abby squeezes his hand a little tighter, a silent apology, and Buck hates that she even has to make it. Hates even more that a part of him still wants her to. “But they let in Eddie, this total stranger, after, what, a couple of hours? Like he’s been there for years. You’re the one who’s been there. I’m angry that they can’t get over it, and yeah, maybe I’m taking it out on him a little.” 

“Is it just the 118 you’re angry at?” Abby asks, so gentle Buck almost doesn’t hear it. 

The words settle a lump in his throat. “What are you talking about?” Buck asks. 

Abby sighs. “You’re allowed to be angry with me, too, you know,” she says. Buck blinks against the sudden sting in his eyes. “I appreciate so much the space you’ve given me, and the patience. And even though I know I had to leave for a while, that I had to take that time for myself, for what I needed, I know it was an incredibly selfish decision. I know it hurt you. And I’m not naive enough to think that just because I’m back now that means the hurting's stopped.” 

Buck breathes, slow and measured, through his nose. “I don’t wanna fight, Abby,” he says. 

Abby shakes her head. “Just because you have something you need to say to me that might upset me, that doesn’t mean we’re fighting, Buck,” she tells him. “We’re grown-ups. We’re having a conversation. Sometimes conversations hurt. But they’re also the best way, in the long run, to make the hurting stop.” 

It’s quiet in the jeep for one long, excruciatingly drawn-out moment while Buck works past the lump in his throat. 

“I’m angry you left me.” 

They’re quiet again. 

“Okay,” Abby says. Her voice is thick and wet. Buck can’t stand to look over at her. He doesn’t want to see her cry. 

“And I don’t need you to apologize,” Buck continues. “Because you’re right. It was important for you, to do what you did. I don’t want you to be sorry for taking care of yourself, Abby. I don’t want you to be sorry for thriving. I’m just mad at you, and I guess the world, I don’t know – myself – for not being enough for you to get what you needed here. With me.” 

From the seat beside him, Abby sniffles. “Then I won’t say I’m sorry for going,” she tells him. “But I will tell you just how sorry I am that you’re hurting. Because I am, Buck. Even if there was no way to avoid it, I’m just sorry.” 

Buck doesn’t pause to consider his next move before he’s pulling their interlocked hands across to his side of the car and pressing a kiss of his own against the back of Abby’s hand. 

“I love you,” he says fiercely. 

Her reply is strained and watery, but every bit as sincere. “I love you, too.” 

They drive in silence for a few blocks, letting the heightened emotions floating in the air like smog settle into something softer, more breathable. Eventually, Abby breaks it by turning to him and saying, “you should apologize to Eddie. He sounds like a decent guy.” 

Buck sighs. “He is,” he admits, however begrudgingly. He thinks for a second about telling her just how decent, that he’s every bit as attractive as he is good at his job, if not more so. 

It’s not that Abby doesn’t know Buck is bi, or even that she’d mind him talking about guys with her – he’s done so during enough movie marathons, and days at the beach, and late nights with his head between her thighs, to know she wouldn’t – but the moment feels sacred, feels isolated,  _ just for them _ , and he doesn’t want to bring anyone else into it. Least of all someone he has to go back to work with tomorrow. 

“So, you’ll apologize?” Abby prompts. 

Buck scrunches his nose. “I’ll think about it.” 


	2. Maddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're eventually going to get out of the first episode, I swear. It's just that somewhere along the way I apparently decided this fic was going to go way more into Buck's backstory than I originally intended. So this chapter got a little waylaid, and future chapters seem liable to do the same. I think that's a good thing, though, and hopefully, you agree!

The shower is running when Buck and Abby get home. 

When they turn to face each other, the silent question of _were you expecting company_ passes easily between them, as does their mutual confusion, speaking to a clear and obvious _no_. They set their bags – Abby’s purse and Buck’s duffle – by the door without a sound, then tiptoe into the kitchen where Buck, with his finger guiding the track to muffle the noise, opens the utensil drawer left of the sink and grabs a meat tenderizer. 

Buck takes up the lead, Abby skittering nervously behind, the fingers not curled around her cell phone clutched tight around the point of Buck’s elbow. He holds the meat tenderizer over his shoulder in a long, vertical line, the light overhead reflecting off the peaks and casting shadow in the valleys of the utensil’s spiked, metal surface. Buck reaches out, turns the handle, then nudges the door open with his toe, keeping as much distance as possible between himself and the bathroom door in case of an ambush. When none comes, he and Abby move cautiously across the open threshold. 

“You have ten seconds to explain what the hell you’re doing in our apartment or I’m calling the cops,” Buck announces, his voice impressively steady until, fumbling, he adds, “I-I’m armed.” 

The curtains hiss on the track as a petite hand with dark painted nails yanks them back half a foot. Big, startled brown eyes under a mop of wet, dark hair poke out from behind the curtain and blink at them owlishly. 

“Maddie?” 

Buck gapes at her, meat tenderizer falling like a stone to his side as his posture relaxes. 

“I am _so_ sorry,” Maddie rambles, her voice tight and shrill in a way that should be annoying but Buck finds instead a familiar comfort. “I didn’t know when you were gonna be home, and I still had airport grime all over me, so I figured it would be okay if I snuck in a quick shower.” 

“Buck,” Abby says, hesitant and unsure. Buck knows it looks like something it’s not, and the quiet hurt in her voice she’s trying to steady, the things she must be thinking as her fingers twitch against his elbow, make Buck’s stomach burn. 

“You have a lovely home,” Maddie says, to Abby now, a strained smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Great water pressure.” 

Abby stammers. “Ah, th-thank you,” she says, then nudges Buck subtly with her shoulder as she continues, “and you are?” 

And that’s how Buck introduces Abby to his sister. 

* * *

“First I went to the address the Christmas cards keep coming from,” Maddie explains around a mouth full of eggs, satisfying Buck’s curiosity as to how she was able to get into the apartment, and how she was able to trace him to it in the first place. Though the ease with which both were done does give him pause. “Guy said you were here.”

“Glad to hear tenant safety isn’t just a top priority in this building,” Abby quips, her displeasure with the building manager letting a complete stranger into her place plain as day in the curl of her lips. 

Maddie huffs a laugh and raises a conciliatory eyebrow. “Tell me about it,” she agrees. “I’m starting to get why everyone’s always talking about how dangerous LA is.” 

And normally, Buck would jump in to defend the city he’s come to call home, but his brain is still stuck like a stalled engine a few sentences back. “Wait,” he says, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice and mask it with amusement. “So, you did get those Christmas cards?” 

Maddie twists her lips. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch much lately,” she says. She sees right through his facade like she always has, despite how long she’s been away, and it aches something awful under Buck’s ribs. 

“Three years, Maddie,” he says, quiet and clipped. “I haven’t heard from you in three years.” 

The warm pressure of Abby’s fingertips pressing low against his spine radiates suddenly through the fabric of Buck’s shirt as his pain draws her hand to him like a magnet. She’s pressed close enough on their side of the island, Buck isn’t sure Maddie picks up on the reflexive gesture of comfort until he sees a rueful smile tug at the corner of her mouth. 

“Yeah, I know,” Maddie says. “And it’s not what I wanted.”

The fingertips against the small of his back flatten to a palm. It’s enough for Buck to ask what he’s been dying to know since he first saw Maddie’s head poke out from behind the shower curtain, even if the wrong answer’s gonna hurt. Like hell. 

“Where is Doug?” 

There’s a weighted pause, all of eternity balancing on the edge of a knife, before Maddie springs to her feet, and with a kind of nonchalance that reads as too bubblegum fake says, “don’t know, don’t care.” 

Buck swallows as her words settle, cresting against him as an intense wave of relief for a worry he hardly knew he was carrying. “You left him?” 

“Finally,” Maddie confirms with a nod. 

The breath rushes out of Buck’s lungs as another wave crashes into him. “Jeez, Mads,” he says. “What took you so long?” 

Maddie shrugs. “What can I say? Mom was right.” 

She sounds bitter about it. Buck would, too, if he was ever in a position to have to utter those same words. 

“Do they know?” 

Maddie’s pinched expression, there one second then smoothed away the next, a well-practised mask of composure she’s been mastering since they’re kids, nearly breaks Buck’s heart. “No one knows,” she replies. “And please, don’t tell them, if they call. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.” 

A sudden chill drops in Buck’s stomach like a stone. “Kinda sounds like you’re hiding out,” he says. 

“Nah,” Maddie dismisses with an easy toss of her curls. “More like laying low.” 

“Well, you’re more than welcome to say here as long as you’d like,” Abby offers, her thumb rubbing circles across Buck’s back, like she feels the tension settling into his muscles and it’s only second nature to work them out. A rush of gratitude, of love, swells up in Buck’s chest and clogs his throat, that Abby’s welcomed his sister into her home before he’s even had to ask. 

_Their_ _home_ , he reminds himself. It’s still a thought that feels so foreign, that a home could ever be his, let alone something he shares with a person he loves. 

Any warmth building in Buck’s chest smothers when he sees the easy smile on Maddie’s face slip. “Thank you,” she says. “That’s really, very kind of you to offer. But I’m just passing through.” 

“Oh,” Abby says, sudden and abrupt like the refusal catches her off guard. “Okay,” she adds. “Well, as long as you _are_ here, we have a spare room you’re more than welcome to use.” 

Buck fights past the lump in his throat to double down on the offer. “Even if it is just for a few days,” he says. “I’m happy you’re here. It’s been” – a sudden, shuddering breath stops him dead, and swallows before trying again – “It’s been too long, Maddie.” 

Maddie looks guilty when she dodges Buck’s eyes to stare down into her wine. Buck vows then and there to do everything in his power to keep her in LA. Safe. With him.

* * *

“You hardly ever talk about her,” Abby says softly, the corner of her mouth brushing the edge of the tattoo on Buck’s pec. She’s barely audible over the _hum_ of the air conditioner, definitely too quiet to risk being overheard by the unexpected presence in the guest room next door. 

Buck swallows. “It’s hard to talk about,” he replies. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all he can manage right now, with the sting of carefully repressed memories bubbling to the surface behind his eyes. 

“I know that,” Abby says, and it’s so patient, so gentle. Buck’s chest is still tight, but the feeling beneath it changes, less like a vice grip keeping something in and more like a loaded spring, trying to force something out. 

“I just want you to know what whenever you do wanna talk, I’m here to listen,” she adds. “You don’t have to hide anything from me for my own sake, if it’s something you wanna share. I’m not too delicate. And you’re not gonna scare me away.” 

Now, it’s Buck’s turn to reply, “I know that.” 

Abby sighs and curls closer, placing a soft, tender kiss to the centre of his chest. He repays her with a kiss to her forehead, broad hand travelling up and down the length of her back as he holds her close. 

“It’s just that things were bad,” Buck explains, his voice thick and absolutely wrecked, even whispered in the breath of space between them. “And I guess it’s easier, to be in denial about how much we’re both still screwed up over it, than to face it.” 

Abby doesn’t say anything, but her body is still loose and comfortable beside him, her fingers tracing patterns against his skin, in a way that makes it easy – or at least easier – for Buck to go on. 

“I want to talk,” he says. “I’m just worried that if I start, everything’s gonna be like it was before, you know? Before I put everything in a box and buried it down someplace it couldn’t hurt as much. And I don’t know if I have it in me to deal with having everything back out in the open again. Not tonight, and maybe not ever.” 

“Well,” Abby whispers. “You don’t have to talk about it just for my sake, either. If there are some things you never tell me, that’s okay, too.” 

Buck lets out a sudden, shaky breath. “Yeah?” he asks, hating the way he sounds heistant, vulnerable. But he can trust Abby with his vulnerability, he knows that, so instead of recoiling and asking her to forget the whole thing, he waits, breath stuck in his lungs, for her to answer. 

“Buck,” she says, quiet but firm, and Buck exhales beneath her. “I never want you to feel obligated to share things with me if they’re too personal. Just because we’re in a relationship doesn’t mean I’m entitled to know everything about you. It just means that I love you, and support you, and that I’m here for you if you do wanna share, even if it’s sporadic, or selective. I’m your partner. All I want is to give you what you need, whether that’s someone to confide in, or someone to respect your privacy.” 

Buck clears his throat and blinks back the moisture in his eyes, staring unseeingly up at their ceiling in the dark. “And what if talking about it would be good for me?” he asks. 

Abby shrugs. “Then you’ll reach a point where you’ll be _ready_ to talk about it,” she replies, like it’s as simple as that. Maybe, in some ways, it is. “I won’t have to force it out of you. I trust that when you’re ready, you’ll come to me, or your sister, or a therapist. Everything in its time. There’s no need to rush, Buck.” 

“Okay,” Buck says. A single tear falls from the corner of his eye and travels down the column of his throat, leaving behind a trail of uncomfortably cold air as it evaporates. “I’m not ready yet but I think, with Maddie here, I’m gonna need to be. Stuff’s coming up anyway, and I’m– uh, I’m gonna need to talk about it, or I’m gonna spiral right back to a place I don’t wanna be. So, just, give me a day or two to get my head around it, and then there are things I wanna tell you.”

Hoisting herself onto her elbow, Abby leans up and kisses Buck, soft and gentle. “I’ll be here,” she promises. 

Settling back against him, Abby burrows her head in the bend where Buck’s neck meets his shoulder and places another gentle kiss to his pulse point before her breathing evens out. Buck sleeps solidly through the night. 

* * *

Buck’s emotions are still uncomfortably raw the following afternoon when his shift rolls around, something he blames entirely for the derailment of his tentative plan to apologize to Eddie for being such an ass the day before. He extends an olive branch, humouring Eddie as he explains the effects of flat, blue light on the way muscle tone photographs. He even lets Eddie scroll through his submissions for the calendar on his iPhone, Chim looking in over their shoulders.

Buck feels his mood souring by the second. 

“That’s kinda cheating,” Buck says, mild annoyance flaring in his chest as he examines the various black and white stills on Eddie’s phone screen. Eddie in uniform. Eddie shirtless. _Eddie with a kitten_. He’s absolutely gorgeous, and Buck is filled all at once with a disquieting mix of arousal and inadequacy. 

“Submitting pictures by a professional photographer,” he adds, to clarify.

The way Eddie laughs, like Buck’s jumped to some ridiculous conclusion, like he’s being _stupid_ , sends a chill through Buck’s body that nearly buckles his knees. As soon as the cold washes over him, it’s replaced just as quick with a cascade of fire, burning down his neck, across his back, as shame settles like acid in his throat. 

“The photographer’s twelve,” Eddie says. He turns to Chimney and adds, “my niece. She’s a master at the iPhone filters.” 

And just like that, Buck’s goodwill toward Eddie all but evaporates. He’s making fun of Buck, ridiculing him. And maybe it’s just supposed to be a gentle ribbing, but Eddie is new here, and he doesn’t know Buck like that. He doesn’t get to make those snide kinds of comments that leave Buck feeling two feet tall. 

There’s another part of Buck, too, that feels _exposed_ as much as he feels dumb. Like admitting to Eddie that some grainy iPhone pictures taken in someone’s back yard look as good to him as a professional photoshoot means showing Eddie his hand, letting him know that Buck is _attracted_ to him, which feels sick and dangerous and _wrong_ in a way it hasn’t since Buck turned eighteen and got the fuck out of Pensylvania. It’s a way he hates feeling, but doesn’t know how to stop while Eddie and Chim have their eyes on him, while they’re laughing at him. 

“Did you send this?” Chimney asks, and when Eddie confirms he has, Chim adds, “do you think she’d be willing to take my submission pics for me? I’m told I photograph like an Asian Fabio.” 

Eddie agrees, bright and easy, but with this subtle little tone to his voice like he’s humouring Chim, and Buck is abruptly no longer able to bite his tongue. “You know,” he snaps. “You really shouldn’t get his hopes up like that.” Which sounds meaner than Buck intends, so he softens it with a “no offence, Chim.” 

He knows that for all that he’s backtracking, he’s still stepped in it when Chim snarks back, “no offence taken, Evan.” 

Then Chim’s stalking away, and the guilt of Buck’s actions churn uncomfortably in his stomach. He glances down at the weights he’s repping, and when he glances back up, Eddie’s already advanced on him three feet. 

“What’s your problem, man?” he asks, and the tone of his voice isn’t even accusatory. It’s pitying, like someone who’s so goddamn sure they’re in the right, that it’s the other person blowing things out of proportion. Buck’s composure snaps. 

“Okay, you,” Buck says, standing from the weight bench to face Eddie head-on. “You’re my problem. Your comfort level. You-you’re not supposed to just walk in here like you’ve been here for years. There’s meant to be a _getting to know_ you period. You’re supposed to respect your elders.” 

Because Buck was here first. Buck was here first, and Eddie isn’t going to swan in with his eight pack and his shining record of military service and show Buck’s family once and for all just how expendable he really is. 

“You’re not his elder, Buck,” Chim quips. 

Buck doesn’t need the reminder that Eddie has life experience over him, too. 

“Look,” Eddie says, and he’s so smug about it. _Why is he so smug about it_? “I, in no way, meant to, uh–” he waves his arms, like he’s looking for the right word to be appropriately dismissive of Buck’s feelings “–be too familiar, or step on anybody’s toes. I know you’re going through some personal stuff right now.” 

Buck’s blood turns to ice in his veins. “What personal stuff?” he asks, voice razor-sharp and a hair dangerous. He sees Chimney still on the push-up bar behind them.

“I know your girlfriend recently left you, and that you’ve been having some difficulty coming to terms with that,” Eddie replies. Like he knows everything there is to know about Buck, or his life, or his relationship. 

Buck’s nostrils flare. He takes a sweeping step into Eddie’s space, and Eddie at least has the good sense to tense up about it. “Okay,” Buck says. “First of all, I don’t know who told you that, but they’re wrong. Abby didn’t leave me, she went on a _vacation_. That’s not the same thing. And she’s back now, anyway. Longer than you’ve even been here. Which honestly raises a lot of questions about what people around here are saying about me – about my girlfriend – behind my back.” 

Eddie winces and holds up his hands. “Alright, I’m sorry,” he says. “Clearly that’s a misunderstanding on my part. I’m not trying to offend you, brother. I’m just trying to say that I hear you’re a good guy, and I want things to not be so strained between us. I don’t know what you’re going through, but you don’t have to take it out on me, or be threatened by me. We–we’re on the same team.” 

Buck shifts antsily from foot to foot and tries not to translate his anger into biting his bottom lip raw. “Why would I be threatened by you?” he asks. 

Eddie flashes him a lazy, self-assured smile, like he knows exactly what he’s got over Buck but is too polite, or maybe too passive-aggressive, to ever say as much outright. “Exactly,” he says. “There’s no need to be. We do the same thing. I’ve just done it while people are shooting at me, is all.” 

Passive-aggressive it is, then. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! If you'd like, you can also come say hi on


	3. A Shift in Dynamic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a very pesky anon on Tumblr insistent on sending me hate messages every time I update this fic because they apparently both can't stand Abby, and also can't stand that anyone else might actually like her, so this is a double-update weekend because hate comments fill me with SPITE and I was just really motivated to get another chapter written and posted on my day off. 
> 
> (though in all seriousness, don't send hate messages, folks. I respond to positive feedback 10x better I promise)

The grenade embedded in the man’s leg is live, in the back of their ambulance, traveling bracingly through congested LA traffic, and Buck’s entire world slows like he’s moving underwater. 

He replays his and Eddie’s earlier conversation like a record stuck in a skip, tense then, but a welcome comfort now that Buck’s got a whole new set of problems, mainly being worried that the patient he’s transporting is about to explode. Eddie slams against the partition to catch the driver’s attention, hollering over the noise of the cars outside and the wheels against the pavement to pull over, and Buck ruminates to force down the panic clawing at his throat. 

_“What are we measuring here, Buck?”_

Buck can’t tell, even now, for all the times Eddie’s words have rattled around inside his skull, the exact intention behind them, whether they’re friendly, or disparaging, or some other unnamed thing Buck doesn’t want to even consider. He knows what they do to him, flush him hot under the collar, then freeze him cold and set him on edge as he remembers himself, remembers Abby, at home in their apartment, and the way he and Eddie have been railing against each other since the other man started at the 118 all of two shifts ago. It’s easy to imagine the railing as something it’s not, something hot, and heavy, and heated, but Buck knows following that line of thought any further is only going to hurt their working relationship, not mend it. 

So, Buck keeps himself distracted with his worry instead, for Charlie, for the unsuspecting motorists of LA – hell, even for Eddie – until they coast safely into the back parking lot of the hospital, bomb squad already on-site to greet them.

“I-I thought this thing already went off,” Buck stammers as he stands in the parking lot with Bobby, Eddie, and the bomb squad guy, staring down the scan on the tablet in front of them, round plain as day on the image in a way that’s so casual, like it’s a regular thing and not a goddamn public safety hazard, that it raises the hair on the back of Buck’s neck.

“The launch grenade has two components,” Eddie explains. “Gunpowder, which makes it travel, and an explosive charge that makes it go _boom._ ” 

He’s every bit as casual as the x-ray, and Buck’s annoyance chafes again. “Okay,” he says. “So, why didn’t this one go _boom?_ ” 

“It’s fitted with a proximity fuse,” Eddie says. “It’s a little smart sensor that tells the cap it’s traveled a safe enough distance from the shooter to explode. From his hand to his leg probably wasn’t far enough.”

Bobby throws out his hand, gesturing to the building behind them, and Buck hears the tight strain of frustration in his voice when he speaks. “Well,” he says. “We can’t bring him into a hospital full of people. Not with that still stuck inside him.” 

“We called the military for help,” the bomb squad officer offers, like it’s much consolation.

Buck’s answering laugh is dry and devoid of any genuine amusement. “The military?” he repeats. “Uh, can’t you do it? You’re the bomb squad.” 

Apparently, the answer is no. 

Panic swells in Buck’s chest again when they’re told they’ll need to wait an hour for the military team to arrive, but it’s not for the sake of his own wellbeing anymore. It’s for Charlie, the old man with the live grenade in his leg, who didn’t do anything wrong, who indulged in a hobby, bought a memento from the war he thought was something safe, except he was _lied to,_ and now he doesn’t have an hour to wait. In an hour he’ll be dead. 

Buck’s five seconds away from offering to look up a tutorial on YouTube and then try his best when Eddie surprises him. 

“I can do it.” 

Buck looks over at him, mouth agape, to take in the hard set of Eddie’s jaw, the steel in his spine, and the firm resolve in his dark brown eyes, trained directly on Buck. 

Buck isn’t expecting it, the full force of Eddie’s determined gaze, and a bolt of something electric zings up his spine. Eddie’s looked at Buck a lot of ways since they first met, and Buck’s sure now that those looks were dismissive before, because the look Eddie has fixed on him now? It’s anything but dismissive. It’s earnest, and raw, and profoundly good. Because this isn’t the time for bravado, or one-upping each other. There’s a man’s life on the line, and Eddie takes that seriously. As seriously as Buck. 

Something in Buck’s chest shakes loose at the realization, and with it, the jumbled mess of his thoughts and feelings toward Eddie settle into place like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Eddie’s a good man. They want the same thing. 

They’re on the same team. 

“I’m in,” Buck says. 

He looks over at Bobby, who’s surprise is clear as day on his face, but he doesn’t try to argue. Then, Buck glances back at Eddie, and his breath catches in his throat. Buck’s never been good at reading people when it comes to anything outside of sex, but he’s filled with the unmistakable sense that, for the first time since joining the team, Eddie sees him. Not whatever conclusions he’s prematurely drawn, or what the others have told him to see, but Buck. Raw and authentic Buck. 

Eddie nods at him, slow and serious, and Buck returns the gesture in kind. 

Once they’re fitted into protective vests and ready to go in, Bobby sends Eddie ahead with a hand on his shoulder and orders to be careful. Buck expects the same, but that’s not what he receives. 

With Eddie out of earshot, Bobby follows Buck on his heels toward the ambulance and the live ordinance it houses and says, “alright, Buck, listen. You don’t have to do this.” 

“You think I’m really gonna let the new guy have all the fun?” Buck quips, aiming for levity. From the way Bobby’s eyes widen, it doesn’t quite land, so he redoubles his efforts. “Besides,” he says. “You wanted us to bond. We might end up real close.” 

Bobby lets him go after that, or maybe it’s just that Buck is walking away too fast for him to give chase without causing a scene. He takes the small, blast-resistant container Eddie passes him and climbs into the ambulance, reminding himself all the while to take deep breaths. It’s easier to do the more he reminds himself he’s doing something good, but those first few lungfuls, rushing into such a dangerous situation, are always a struggle. 

“How are you feeling, there, Charlie?” Eddie asks as he climbs in after Buck. 

“Like a world-class idiot,” Charlie replies. His speech is slow, and a little slurred, but ultimately coherent, and it pushes down the last of the upfront worry Buck’s feeling, turns it into something that’s more of a background note, like static. Something he can manage. 

“My wife,” Charlie continues. He’s got a far-off look in his eyes, like he’s not really talking to either of them, like maybe the gentle rumble of his voice in his chest is enough to make static of his own panic. “If she was still alive, she’d be here now saying, ‘I told you so.’ Well, maybe she’ll be able to tell me in person in about a minute.” 

“Nah,” Buck says with a casual shake of his head. “That conversation’s gonna have to wait. Nobody’s leaving this life tonight.”

Charlie takes Buck’s assurance without protest, though to say he agrees, Buck’s not entirely sure. On Eddie’s cue, he searches their supplies for a syringe of sedatives to push into the IV drip, listening to the calm, steady noise of Eddie and Charlie’s small talk as he goes. He injects the needle into the port on the line just as Charlie bemoans spending the last forty years as a seventh-grade teacher instead of a Marine, like he always wanted. 

Eddie’s voice is gentle when he replies, “there, there, Charlie. Not all heroes serve on the battlefield.” 

He’s focused entirely on the open wound and the live round nestled inside, but Buck can feel, just from the tone of his voice, the meaningful look Eddie would give him if they had the option. It’s an apology, Buck knows, for his part in the tension festering between them. And even though Buck’s been coming around to the idea of bearing the brunt of the apology himself, this even footing they’ve stepped onto since climbing into the same powder-keg of an ambulance together feels better than Buck’s swallowed pride ever did. 

“That’s very kind of you to say that,” Charlie slurs as the sedative kicks in, head lolling back as he quickly loses consciousness. 

Finally, Buck and Eddie turn to face each other, and there’s more weight to Eddie’s stare than even Buck was expecting. 

“You ready?” Eddie asks. 

“Yeah,” Buck replies, breathy and low on a sharp exhale. He takes a second to think of Abby, of Maddie, probably back at his apartment trading embarrassing stories about him, or maybe out on the town, depending on the kind of day they’ve both had. He doesn’t give himself longer than a second, though, because any longer, and he’ll start spiraling, and if there’s ever been a time when he can’t afford to spiral, it’s now. 

“Man, he’s losing a lot of blood,” Buck warns, taking in the sight of the open wound before him. 

Humming, Eddie agrees. “Keep pressure on it,” he says, but Buck must get too close to the grenade for comfort, because the next second, Eddie warns, “n-not too much pressure.” 

For the next minute, Buck’s not sure he so much as breathes. He’s sure he must, from the heavy, laboured sounds that fill the back of the rig, but the lump in his throat feels so restrictive, Buck can only imagine his whole windpipe is closed over. Eddie’s halfway through explaining why he can’t rotate the grenade without risking detonation when he starts rotating the damn grenade, and when it finally comes free, all in one piece – fortunately, like the rest of them – Eddie has to prompt him to grab the container, he’s in such a fog. 

With the lid securely shut, relief hits Buck harder than any explosive. He looks at Eddie with wide doe eyes, and the smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth is undeniable. It settles into a weighty, slack-jawed stare once more as he glances down at the box containing a live grenade held in his hands. It’s an expression Eddie’s own face mirrors. 

They leave the box in the ambulance as instructed and wheel Charlie to the waiting paramedics outside, silent all the while, like neither of them can think of what to say to the other. Buck certainly can’t. Their shift in dynamic has been so sudden, from animosity to intense, deep-seated camaraderie in all of ten minutes, and for all it feels organic – feels _right_ – settling the hostile buzzing under Buck’s skin, it’s a lot to put into words. 

Lucky for Buck, Eddie breaks the charged silence first. 

“You’re badass under pressure, brother,” he offers. 

Buck’s stomach flips in a familiar way, pleasure and pride and respect for Eddie’s opinion of him tugging one side of his mouth up in a shy, grateful mile. The feeling is safe enough on its own, but coupled with the way the sweat beading on Eddie’s brow hits Buck the same but _lower_ , it’s suddenly much more dangerous. 

“Me?” Buck says, trying to play it cool, but his voice comes out broken and breathy. 

Eddie smirks.

Buck, caught up in the swirl of the adrenaline, feels his belly clench again. 

“Hell yeah,” he replies. “You can have my back any day.” 

It’s an olive branch, one Buck is so, so eager to take. “Yeah,” he says. Then, he gathers his courage and extends one of his own. “Or, you know, you could– you could have mine.” 

And for the first time since they met, Eddie’s laugh doesn’t unsettle Buck. It’s sudden, and bright, and it drapes across Buck’s skin like California sunshine. 

“Deal,” Eddie says, extending a hand. Buck tries not to let on how much his are shaking when he takes it, but he’s comforted to find Eddie’s every bit as unsteady as his own. 

Bobby congratulates them on a job well done, and Buck gives Eddie credit where credit is due.

When the ambulance blows up behind them, Buck’s heart leaps into his throat. 

In that moment, turning to face Eddie and his guilty smile, Buck’s shoulders still hunched for cover somewhere around his ears, Eddie deflects the gravity of the situation – of what nearly just happened to them – with a glib request to grab a bite to eat, and he’s suddenly so human, so real, Buck knows that whatever tension he’s feeling will dissipate. He and Eddie are going to be great friends, and there isn’t a single kind of tension Buck will let jeopardize that.

* * *

When Buck gets back to the apartment, the pungent smell of sauteing garlic and the delicate sound of airy laughter wraps itself around him like a warm embrace. The tension melts from his shoulders at the same time the urgent need to be with Abby and Maddie – with his _family_ – propels him into the kitchen. 

“Hi, honey,” Abby greets, setting her wooden spoon down on the spoon rest on the stove. “How was your day?” 

The question is barely out of her mouth before Buck pulls her into a kiss, his hands cupped on either side of her neck to feel her pulse thrum against his fingers. She kisses him back just as firm, arms wrapping around his waist. She’s no stranger to days that need greetings like these. 

“Is everything okay?” she asks when Buck finally steps back, putting space between them, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns to Maddie and wraps her up in a bear hug, lifting her feet off the ground. 

“Evan,” she shrieks, rigid with surprise. When Buck doesn’t respond, she deflates all at once, settling against him and bracing her arms around his neck, her chin pressing sharply into his shoulder. “Are you okay?” she whispers. 

Buck shakes his head, the loose strands of her hair tickling against his nose, and she holds him tighter until he’s finally ready to put her down. 

“I’m okay,” Buck promises when he’s met with two worried sets of eyes, despite just attesting to the opposite. “I just– I had a dicey call. And I’m just really glad you’re both here.” 

Abby runs a comforting hand down the length of his left bicep, over the ribbed fabric of his henley, and Buck lets her touch warm him from the outside in. “Dinner’ll be ready in fifteen,” she tells him. “Do you wanna talk about it, or would you rather a distraction?” 

And Buck can see the concerned curiosity burning behind both women’s eyes, but he doesn’t know that he has it in him to admit he almost got blown up on the job. Like saying it out loud will make it chillingly, hauntingly real. 

“What I could really use is a shower in my own home,” Buck replies instead. “Not that the communal ones at the station aren’t great. I really like the part where I get to wear the flip-flops inside the shower. It’s like a special treat just for me.” 

Abby and Maddie both laugh at that, the desired effect, and Buck disappears down the hall to leave his sister and his girlfriend to their dinner preparations while he washes the tension of the day down the drain. 

He throws on some fresh clothes and joins them at the dinner table just as Abby sets his serving of _spaghetti aglio et olio_ on the placemat at his regular seat. He kisses her softly and compliments how good the food smells – how good it looks – before quickly tucking in. 

“So,” Abby says cautiously around a bite of pasta, like she’s about to say something she’s not sure will be welcomed. Buck skims her ankle with his, a silent show of support, and she flashes him a small, stolen smile before continuing. “I was telling your sister how we’re always looking for people at dispatch.” 

Buck glances up at Maddie in time to see her smile tighten. Her fork scrapes unpleasantly against the teal ceramic of her plate, and Buck just barely holds back a grimace. 

“I know you said you weren’t planning to stay,” Abby adds when she, too, catches sight of the apprehension in Maddie’s expression. “But as long your plans are still up in the air, there’s no harm in coming in to get a better idea of what the job is like. I mean, you’re a nurse, right? Your skills would be an asset. Plus, you wouldn’t have to worry about transferring your license to California this way.” 

“Hey, that would be awesome,” Buck agrees, leaning emphatically across the table on his elbows to meet his sister’s downcast eyes where she sits across from him. “Come on, Maddie. I know I’m supposed to be respecting your wishes, or whatever, but you can’t ask me to pretend like I don’t want you to stay here.” 

Maddie’s lips twitch, pulling down at the corners. “I’ll think about it,” she says. It doesn’t sound entirely sincere, but it’s close enough for Buck to give her a pass. 

“Okay,” he says with a small, curt nod. Then, more firmly, “okay. That’s all I’m asking.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, tense, as cutlery and wine glasses _clink_ against the tabletop. 

Maddie breaks the silence. “The pasta’s delicious, Abby,” she compliments. However forced it sounds, Buck knows his sister well enough to know she’s being sincere. “I almost wouldn’t believe it was homemade if I hadn’t watched you roll it out myself.” 

Abby smiles, a delicate pink flush rising to the apples of her cheeks. “Thank you,” she replies. “I took a class while I was in Italy. I didn’t actually absorb much else, but actually, pasta dough is a lot easier to make than you’d think.” 

The conversation flows easily again after that, once it’s clear the topic of Maddie staying in Los Angeles is off the table. It feels good to sit, surrounded by the two people he loves most in the world, with good food and effortless conversation. Buck knows a storm is brewing, that the quiet intimacy of this night can’t last forever, not with Maddie still dodging questions about Doug, and Buck dodging questions about his own past, despite how much he wants to be open with Abby, to tell her all his secrets, show her the darkest corners of his closet, where skeletons would be a welcome alternative to the monsters lurking within. 

For now, though? For now, his stomach is full, and his cheeks are warm, and his heart floats in his chest like it weighs nothing at all. Buck is greedy; he’s going to enjoy this moment until the sweetness of the wine sours to vinegar, and he has no choice but to turn head-on and face the music. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to leave those sweet, sweet kudos and comments if you're enjoying things so far!


	4. Buckley Family Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNING:** This chapter deals with discussions of past childhood sexual abuse. Read at your own risk, and if you, for any reason, want or need to skip this chapter, I completely understand. The abuse will likely be referenced to some degree in other chapters, but not a centrally as it is in this chapter, and if it does, those chapters will have content warnings as well.

Buck spends the day waiting for the other shoe to drop.

His shift is pleasantly uneventful – so much as rescuing a YouTuber from the bottom of a swimming pool with a microwave oven cemented to his head can be considered uneventful. In LA, it almost is. He gets a single tear-face emoji from Abby when he texts her to tell her he’s been passed over for the calendar, then a string of thumbs up when he adds that Chim’s been chosen instead. The news about the calendar, while on some level disappointing, also does wonders for packing down the dirt where Buck and Eddie have buried the hatchet. He and Eddie are smiling, and laughing, and Chim’s Mr. April, and he’s out twenty bucks, but can’t seem to care with how happy Bobby and Athena look holding each other’s hands. 

Abby’s working until eleven, and Buck gets off at nine, and the only thing he’s thinking about when he steps through the door is opening a bottle of white, and a fresh bag of Epsom salts, and drawing her a bath for when she gets home. 

Of course, that’s when the other shoe finally hits solid ground. 

Maddie’s bags are waiting by the door, and as Buck ventures into the apartment, he finds her seated on the couch, ramrod straight but for the gentle curve of whatever weight is bowing her shoulders. Buck knows, from her posture, that she hears him, hovering a handful of feet away, but she doesn’t turn to acknowledge him, and Buck knows after a moment of silence she won’t be the first to talk. 

So, he breaks the silence for her. 

“Leaving already?” 

Maddie nods. “Road ahead awaits,” she says with a sad, broken laugh that tugs at every single one of Buck’s heartstrings. 

“I’m more concerned with the road behind you,” he tells her, rounding the couch to face her. He catches the reflection of the lights overhead in the moisture beaded in her eyes. Her face is so still, so stoic, Buck wants to scream, wants to stomp his feet, pull out his own hair. Anything to get a reaction from her. But he knows none of it would be helpful, or anything resembling what she needs, so he forces his voice to stay calm and level as he asks, “Maddie, what really happened with Doug? Why are you running away from him?” 

“No,” Maddie says firmly, almost desperately, with a shake of her head. “Not gonna bring my little brother into this.” 

She finally glances at him. Her eyes are so red, it sets Buck’s nerves on fire. 

“Standing in between you and anyone who thinks they can hurt you is exactly where I wanna be standing,” he says. Her chin wrinkles as her lips begin to tremble, and Buck is so slow, so careful, when he lowers himself to the coffee table to sit opposite her, staggering their position by a handful of inches to avoid crowding her out, or boxing her in. He doesn’t look at her either, because he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable, or maybe because he can’t stand to keep looking at the blank, vaguely hurt mask stretched across her features. 

“Maddie, are you in some kind of danger?” he finally musters the courage to ask, the thing he meant to ask her the second she pulled back the curtain in his shower. Because, as much as he’s so damn glad to see her, he also knows, deep in the pit of his stomach, that he wouldn’t be seeing her unless something was very, _very_ wrong. 

Maddie takes a deep breath. “The stuff Mom and Dad hated about him,” she says. “The stuff that you picked up on, even as a teenager. It all got worse. Much worse, over the last year or so. And when I threatened to leave, he threatened to kill me.”

Buck’s looking at her now, though she’s not looking back, just to see the words come out of her mouth, to make sure he’s not imagining them as the room feels both too big and too compact around him all at once, like his skin is too tight for the heat of the blood pumping in his veins, like his head is floating somewhere above him, tethered to the ground by the fraying nerves at the top of his spinal column like a balloon on a string. 

Maddie’s voice has barely shaken, but when she turns to him with tears in her eyes and meets his gaze, her composure crumbles. “And he meant it,” she confesses, shaking her head as the wetness finally spills over onto her cheeks. “God, you know, when women in abusive relationships used to come into the hospital, I gotta be honest, I would pass judgment. Like, you’re a grown adult. You have the power to leave, so why don’t you just leave him? Now, I get it. It’s like you can’t even believe it’s happening.” 

Buck’s chest aches the more Maddie speaks. Every word hits like a sledgehammer, and he wishes he had one of his own clutched in his trembling hands to swing back at the world, to exact some kind of revenge, though his muscles feel slow and heavy, and he’s not sure he could lift even a feather with how numb he feels, from the lines of his clavicles to the tips of his fingers. 

“But you broke free,” Buck tells her when he finally finds his voice, and though it’s raw and broken, it’s also emphatic and incredibly sincere. “And I’m proud of you. But now is not the time to be alone, alright? Maddie, please. Stay here, okay? Abby and I, we’ve got plenty of room. And, hey, if Doug comes looking, then I know a lot of cops.” 

“He won’t,” Maddie assures him. Her tears are already drying, voice already that little bit lighter, and Buck wishes it made the tension release from his gut, but he’s got it clenched so hard now, he isn’t sure he remembers what if feels like to not be tied in knots. “He doesn’t know you live here. He doesn’t know what you do. It’s a real benefit to being married to somebody who doesn’t ask any questions.”

Buck nods. “Okay,” he says. “Well, that’s perfect. You can start over. I can help you.” 

Maddie sniffles, her composure slipping again, and she wipes at the tears streaming down her face. “I miss helping people,” she says. “Of all the things Doug took from me, why did he have to take that? I wanna go back to work, but all I keep thinking about is how open the ER is, how, every time those doors open, he could be the one walking through them.” 

Buck reaches out, places his palm over her hands where they’re wrung in her lap. She turns them over to grip his tight, until her nail beds are while. 

“Then don’t go back to nursing,” Buck suggests. “You heard what Abby said. They’re looking to hire new dispatchers all the time. And that way you’re safe, in a secure building. People can’t just come in from off the street, not like in a hospital. You could take your life back, Maddie.” 

Maddie shakes her head. “I don’t know, Evan,” she says. 

Buck’s brows furrow. “What?” he asks. “Why not?” 

“I’m already invading your girlfriend’s apartment,” she says. “And now I’m just supposed to start following her to work?” 

“Hey,” Buck says, voice hard and firm. “Abby wouldn’t have brought the 9-1-1 job up if she didn’t want you to take it. Maybe some people say things like that because it’s nice, or it’s what you’re supposed to do, but she’s not like that. Abby is one of the most genuine, caring people I know.

“And, besides,” he adds. “This isn’t just her apartment, okay? If I say you can stay as long as you want, then you can stay. You’re family. There’s always gonna be a place for you here.” 

Maddie nods, sniffling softly, but she still doesn’t seem convinced.

“Did Abby tell you about her mom, when we first started dating?” Buck asks, knocking their knees so Maddie meets his eyes. 

“She said she was in hospice care,” Maddie replies, mouth tugging down at the corners. “Basically living out of her dining room, until she passed away.” 

Solemn, Buck nods. “I didn’t get to know her long, and never really the way Abby remembers her, even when she was her most lucid. But I do know that having her in the apartment, being able to help her, provide for her, that was so important to Abby. And maybe, at first, it took me a second to get that, but once I did, I never would have expected her to do anything else.” 

Buck bumps Maddie’s knee again, more meaningfully this time, the press of their legs from patella to ankle a warm, steady comfort. “And I’m not saying this like she owes me now or anything,” Buck continues. “I’m just saying that if anyone’s gonna understand how important it is to be there for your family, it’s Abby. So you don’t have to worry about overstaying your welcome, or being in our space. You just need to take care of yourself, okay?” 

Suddenly, Buck’s caught off-guard with an armful of weeping brunette as Maddie launches herself against his chest, grip tight around his neck. It’s second nature to run a broad, comforting hand up and down her back to settle her as she shakes. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Buck tells her softly, lips pressed against the top of her head. “I love you. I got you.” 

Buck does end up drawing the bath, but it isn’t for Abby. Once Maddie’s settled with some wine and a playlist of soothing spa music, Buck heads back to the living room and lands heavy on the couch, on the far cushion, with a clear view of the door. He considers pouring a glass of wine for himself, something to take the edge off, but he can’t stand the thought of being anything less than one hundred percent in control for the conversation he’s planning to have once Abby gets home. 

* * *

Buck tenses the second he hears the door scrape against the frame. Abby must notice, because her soft smile changes to a frown in the space of a breath, and her purse drops like a stone to the console table in her haste to cross the apartment to Buck’s side. 

“Hey,” Abby says, curling up in the seat beside him, feet tucked under her thighs, with a gentle hand falling to the back of his neck to scratch at the short hair at his nape. “Is everything okay?” 

“I think we should talk now,” Buck replies, his voice coarse and rough like low grit sandpaper. 

He hears Abby swallow beside him, feels the way her body jerks with her quick intake of breath, and feels the way it forcibly relaxes seconds later. “Okay,” she says. “Is here okay, or do you wanna go someplace else? We could go somewhere public, if that would be more comfortable, or for a drive, so it’s just the two of us.” 

Buck shakes his head. “Can we– in bed?” he asks. “I– I wanna be able to hold you.” 

Abby whispers a soft, “of course,” against Buck’s temple, then places a gentle kiss to the same skin her breath tickles, her hand curved around the side of his face to cradle him. She holds on for a few soft, perfect moments, like they’re flies caught in honey, as Buck wraps his palm around her wrist and keeps her pressed against him, feeling her pulse under his fingertips. Abby lets him linger a moment longer, then draws back, returning Buck’s grip and leading him to his feet, then down the hall to their bedroom. 

They take their time in the en suite, washing their faces and brushing their teeth, changing into pajamas and maneuvering around each other all the while like ballerinas in a well-practiced dance. Buck knows to pass over Abby’s eye cream when her toothbrush hits the counter, the same way she hands him her face cloth after he spits his mouthwash into the basin. 

Once they’re finished, Buck turns down the bed, and Abby shuts off the lights. They crawl under the covers together, the soft, worn cotton of Buck’s shirt hanging loose off Abby’s slight frame, brushing against the bare skin of his chest. Her hair scratches his shoulder and under his chin as she rests her head against him, and Buck couldn’t ask for a better feeling in the world. The warmth of her, the familiarity of her subtle floral scent, grounds Buck, even as it feels like his head is trying to float away somewhere else. 

Abby doesn’t rush him, and for that, Buck is grateful. Eventually, he whispers, unsure, against the crown of her head, “I don’t know how to do this.” 

“You could start by telling me why you’re nervous,” Abby suggests. “If you’re worried I’ll say something, or do something, that might make this more difficult for you.” 

Buck swallows thick and nods. He hasn’t said anything yet, and she’s already doing everything right. It’s a kind of tenderness he’s still not used to, still doesn’t know what to do with, and it brings a flood of tears to his eyes, along with a lump in his throat, and something akin to panic across his chest. 

“I don’t want this to make things different between us,” Buck whispers. “I like what we have. The way we are. I’m worried that once I tell you, that’s gonna change. That– that it won’t be so easy anymore.” 

Abby hums. “Do you think that you – I mean, the real you, not just the version of yourself you show to other people – do you think you’re hard to love?” she asks him. 

It’s entirely too on the nose.

“I think there are things about me,” Buck replies, instead of agreeing outright. “About my life, that it took me years to even begin to process. I don’t know how to give that to somebody else. How to ask them to live with it, too.” 

“Isolating yourself,” Abby says. “ _Hiding_ yourself. That can feel really safe. Sometimes, depending on the situation you’re in, it can _be_ really safe. But, Buck, I just hope that you know, you are safe with me. And if what you need is for nothing to change, then I promise you, nothing is going to change.” 

Buck shudders in a breath. “I do feel safe with you,” he says. “Can you just promise me–” 

His voice stops dead in his throat with an audible _click_. Abby circles her fingers over his chest until it works open again, coaxing gently, “just tell me what you need, Evan, it’s okay.” 

“Promise you won’t pull away,” Buck whispers.

Abby nods. “I won’t,” she promises.

And Buck still hasn’t thought of an elegant way to say this, but he can’t hold it in any longer, either. He closes his eyes and tilts back his head, like gravity has any hope in hell of stopping the inevitable rush of tears that will fall the second he opens his mouth. 

“Maddie and I,” Buck croaks. “When we were kids, we had this uncle. He used to– uh, he used to touch us.” 

The confession feels like a torpedo ripping through their bedroom, and Buck waits to feel Abby flinch against him, to feel her scramble back, to put distance between them, maybe like she’s disgusted, or maybe like he’s suddenly too broken and jagged to stand being pressed up against. But Abby doesn’t move. Her hands don’t falter where they trace gentle circles against his bare clavicle, and her breath doesn’t snag against his skin. It’s such a non-reaction, it makes the way Buck’s shaking under her all the more obvious, but she doesn’t comment on that, either. 

“Either you can’t be fazed anymore after spending so much time taking 9-1-1 calls,” Buck says, trying to inject all the levity he can into his tone. “Or you’re not actually all that surprised, are you?” 

Abby sighs, like the words weigh heavy on her. “I’m not gonna lie,” she says. “Knowing about your history with women, and with how reluctant you are to talk about your past, I have been bracing myself for the possibility that this is what you wanted to tell me. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous, I’m sorry.” 

“No, it’s okay,” Buck says, and the relief that floods through him is enough to make him shake even harder. Abby’s still gracious enough not to comment. “I think this is better. Surprise makes people uncomfortable, right? So, maybe, if you’re not surprised, it’ll be easier to talk about.” 

“You don’t have to tell me anything more than you want to,” Abby reminds him.

Buck shakes his head. “I want you to know.” 

Still, he can’t find his voice right away, between the trembling and the errant tears. Abby waits him out, nose pressed against the curve of his neck, fingers dancing across his chest. 

“I don’t remember exactly when it started,” Buck finally begins. “I don’t know if that’s normal, because time’s fuzzy for kids, or if it’s because time gets fuzzy when something like that happens to you. All I know is I can’t remember a time before, even though I’m sure there must have been one.

“I do remember when it stopped,” he continues. “My mom, it was her brother. And she– she caught him with me. She was supposed to be going straight to dinner with my dad after work, and my uncle was supposed to be watching us, but she’d spilled something on her shirt at lunch and she came home before dinner to change.” 

Buck’s breath leaves him in a rush. He knows that what he has to say next is proof of how truly horrible humanity can be, but he wants to tell Abby. He wants her to know, so she understands why he is the way he is, that he never wanted sex to become a compulsion, or to struggle to settle into an adult relationship. That every moment he’s with her, in this space that feels safe and loving and like home, means more to him than he’s ever been able to express. 

“She didn’t do anything,” Buck whispers, soft and broken, and Abby does falter at that, just the slightest intake of breath that Buck only feels with her body pressed so close to his. 

“I mean,” he amends quickly, like for all that he hates his mother for how she reacted, he’s still got this knee-jerk reaction to defend her. “She never left him alone around us again. But she didn’t turn him in. She didn’t try to punish him for what he did to us. He came to Christmas dinner, to Thanksgiving, to Easter. Every year. We had to sit across the table from him and pretend like none of it ever happened, because she’d rather save our family the shame of people finding out her brother was a pedophile who abused his own niece and nephew than to actually do right by us.”

“Buck,” Abby says softly, sadly. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.” 

Buck nods. He’s sorry, too. “He died when I was fifteen,” Buck says. “Heart attack. I can’t tell if that makes it better or worse. Because at least I have the peace of mind, you know, that he’s not out there anymore hurting anyone else.” 

“But it robbed you of your chance to get justice,” Abby finishes. 

“If I’d ever had the guts to go after it in the first place,” Buck replies, with a self-deriding scoff. “Truth is, I don’t know if I’m any better than my mother. It’s not like I ever figured out how to face the truth, either.” 

Abby tugs herself closer, like she might actually try to crawl under his skin. Buck relishes in the feeling of it, of being touched in a way that feels right and good when all his mind can conjure up are memories of touches that are wrong and bad.

“That’s not the same thing,” Abby says, voice filled with pain and fire in equal measure, a sharp, sudden break from her previous calm. “You were a child dealing with an intense, recurring trauma. Your mother was the adult responsible for keeping you safe. Her failure to do so, and your struggle to come to terms with what happened to you, are not the same thing.” 

“No,” Buck says. “You’re right. And I know that. It’s just, sometimes, it’s hard to believe that.”

Abby nods against him. 

“Things got better,” he continues. “When I finally left Hershey. Or, at least, I thought they were better. I didn’t feel his hands on me anymore every time I closed my eyes. Didn’t live in constant fear that somehow, people just _knew_ what he’d done to me, that they were disgusted by me because of it.

“I thought getting away from it meant it couldn’t hurt me anymore, or Maddie,” Buck explains. “But, then, I don’t know. It’s like you said, with all the women, all the sex I was having. Not that it’s wrong to have sex, but I wasn’t always being safe, and I wasn’t always being smart. I was letting it ruin my personal relationships, it started interfering with my job at the 118. And Maddie? Well, she found Doug, didn’t she? A monster who isolated her from the people who love her, manipulated her, abused her. So, I guess neither of us grew up into healthy, well-adjusted adults.” 

“You did the best you could,” Abby assures him. 

Buck sighs. “Still feels like that isn’t worth much sometimes,” he says. 

“Have you talked to a therapist about it?” Abby asks. 

Buck’s blood is suddenly ice in his veins all over again. Talking about his childhood is hard, but this wound is more recent. Abby knew him then. They’d already been talking. It makes the admission almost impossible. 

“The only time I ever went to therapy,” Buck says, voice rough and shaky once more. “It was the first time I lost someone on a call.” 

Abby hums. “I remember that,” she says. “I remember seeing you on the news. Seeing how much it hurt you.” 

“Yeah,” Buck agrees with a humourless huff. “Well, Bobby set me up with a therapist that worked for the department. I thought I was getting somewhere, you know? I was opening up. But then I fell back on old habits. I came onto her, and she, uh, she didn’t turn me down.”

Same as before, it’s a confession Abby isn’t prepared for, and Buck feels her breath catch. But, like before, she’s quick to recover. “She slept with you?” Abby asks, just to be sure. 

Buck sighs. “Yeah,” he confirms. “On the couch in her office. And then she threw me out and asked me never to talk about it. So, I guess Maddie isn’t the only one who fell into the whole _revictimization_ thing.” 

“I’m sorry,” Abby says, shaking her head. The top of her hair tickles against Buck’s chin. “That should never have happened to you. Therapy is supposed to help you heal, not retraumatize you.” 

“I know,” Buck says. “The work I do, people talk about therapy all the time. I know it would be good for me, I just, I can’t bring myself to go back and try again. Not yet.” 

“I understand that,” Abby says. “I guess I’m just worried about you, that’s all. I want you to be able to heal, Buck. To move on.” 

“You know,” he replies with a little laugh, quiet in the space between them. “I think I have been. Healing, I mean. For the longest time, I didn’t have anyone. Maddie, but she moved away to college when I was still in high school. Then there were my parents. Mom, who knew about what happened but didn’t do anything to fix it. And Dad, I don’t know what he knew, but even if Mom didn’t tell him, he was still a piece of work, in his own right. 

“Then, I left,” Buck continued. “And everyone was a stranger. Just people to get drunk with, get high with, have sex with. People I’d never see again, that I was just using to keep my mind switched off. 

“Until I joined the 118, and until I met you, and suddenly there were people in my life I actually cared about, who actually cared about me. I know it’s not therapy and I can’t expect a few close friendships to do all the heavy lifting with all the baggage I’m carrying around, but it is better. Telling you, right now? That’s better. You’re the first person I’ve ever told, Abby.” 

Abby presses a soft, devastating kiss against the hollow of his throat. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For telling me. And I’m not going to force you to go to therapy again if you’re not ready. I just wanna do what I can to stop you from hurting so much.” 

She leans up on her elbow to run her thumb across the crease in the center of Buck’s forehead, fingers moving on to card through his hair. Buck melts against her touch. 

“You already do, so much,” he tells her. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” she replies. 

Buck tips his head forward and catches her lips in a long, slow kiss. Abby doesn’t flinch, and she doesn’t pull away. She’s every bit as warm and present as she’s always been, even with all of Buck’s secrets out in the open. He tries to remember a time when he’s felt this light, but, with a pang, realizes he can’t. 

Maybe it’ll be okay, though. 

After all, he feels light now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to leave those kudos and comments!


	5. Magnitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13k later we finally get a chapter from Eddie's POV! I always intended for the story to alternate, I just hadn't gotten there yet. Also, I couldn't remember offhand how long Shannon was gone, so I guessed. If you know the right answer, let me know and I'll fix it!

It’s pure, unadulterated chaos when the earthquake hits. 

Eddie thumbs uselessly at his phone screen while the ladder truck inches carefully across the city and all its destruction; their call is downtown, a high-rise hotel on the verge of collapse. The cell network is down, which is hardly a surprise, between the damage on the ground and the sheer volume of calls likely trying to get through, but Eddie hates it, wishes honestly for the first time since relocating to the West Coast to be back in El Paso, or literally anywhere else not on a goddamn fault line. 

“Is everything okay?” 

Buck’s slow, concerned voice is like a balm against Eddie’s frayed nerves. The panic dulls from an intense wildfire raging in his veins to an irritating crackle in his belly. 

“Yeah, there’s no service,” Eddie replies, short and abrupt in a way the belies the statement. He doesn’t look up from his phone, doesn’t know if it’s for fear of missing whatever message might come through, or because he doesn’t think he can stand to see the worried, open expression he knows Buck must have leveled at him. Eddie’s never met someone who wears their heart so much on their sleeve – not in such a real, genuine way – and it’s off-putting sometimes, for reasons Eddie can’t fully explain.

“Texts won’t even go through,” he grumbles after another few attempts at pressing _send_. He finally does look up at Buck, just a glance, and finds the exact furrow between the other man’s brows he’s expecting. 

“Who are you trying to get ahold of?” Buck asks, and if Eddie is expecting Buck’s concern, he isn’t expecting the question. 

For one long, drawn-out moment that Eddie knows goes on too long, he says nothing. There’s an impulse, sitting just behind his teeth, to lie, to make something up. It twists uncomfortably in Eddie’s gut, but Christopher is _personal_. He loves that kid to death, but the second he talks about him, it’s gonna come up. 

_It_. The cerebral palsy. 

And if it doesn’t, does that mean Eddie’s hiding it? He doesn’t want to – or maybe, if he’s being honest, he doesn't _want to_ want to – but he also doesn’t want to spend the rest of his day, or the rest of his career, fielding inappropriate questions and pitying looks. He got enough of that back in Afghanistan, back in El Paso. He doesn’t need it now. 

But Buck’s still looking at him with that same open concern, and Eddie, despite himself, listens to the murmuring whisper at the base of his skull promising that this is safe, that Buck and the 118 are safe. 

He takes the leap. “My son. Trying to reach my son.”

It’s quiet for a beat, save for the whirring of the sirens. 

“Oh,” Buck says finally. “You’ve got a kid?” 

His surprise is only fair, Eddie figures, since in the two weeks since they’ve been working together, he hasn’t let on in the slightest. He thinks Bobby must know, since it’s on all his paperwork, but even he hasn’t brought it up. Out of respect for his privacy, maybe? Eddie isn’t sure. 

Eddie figures he’ll save himself an uncomfortable conversation and pulls up a recent picture from his camera roll, passing the phone over to Buck. “Christopher,” he says. The photo’s a full body shot, crutches, and glasses, and awkward posture on full display right alongside his adorable curls and his bright, beaming smile. Eddie purses his lips, already bracing to leap to Christopher’s defense, even as he adds, “he’s seven.” 

But, Buck surprises him. “Man, super adorable,” he tells Eddie with a goofy grin, like his knees might be knobbling if he weren’t sitting down. Eddie even catches the faint hint of a powder-pink blush splashed across his cheeks. “I-uh, I love kids.”

“I love this one,” Eddie says, voice thick with more sincerity than he means to show, but between his heightened anxiety and the general way Chris melts his heart, he can’t seem to filter himself. “I’m all he’s got,” he continues. “His mother’s not in the picture.” 

They’re quiet again. Eddie feels the tension in Buck’s body where their knees jostle together every time the engine hits a crack in the pavement. 

“He’s at school?” Buck asks. 

Eddie nods. “Yeah,” he says. He holds Buck’s gaze, like the weight of it can keep Eddie grounded while he feels so viscerally like he’s going to shake apart. Buck is steady and solid, and Eddie appreciates it – needs it. 

“Hey,” Buck says, eyebrows raised, and his tone is firm, so firm, that Eddie knows, whatever he says next, he’ll believe him, if only for a little while. “I’m sure he’s fine.” 

Eddie nods again and swallows thick. Buck is probably right. Christopher is fine. He’s safe, and sound, and he and Eddie will be exchanging riveting – yet highly abridged – post-earthquake war stories over pizza and colouring books like true LA locals before he knows it. 

In the chaos of the engine, between the whir of the sirens and the rattling of the frame, Buck presses his knee firmly against Eddie’s, and the pounding in his chest finally subsides. 

* * *

They’re on their six-story ascent from hell, trying to reach the man in the bathrobe pinned against the window, when static crackles over the radio. 

“This is dispatch for Firefighter Buckley from engine ladder 118,” says a woman’s voice, measured and slow, with a hint of something wild, pulled taut, stretched across her words like a thin veil of panic. It rattles Eddie’s bones. “Again, this is dispatch for Evan Buckley from the 118.” 

Buck grabs for his radio and quickly presses the call button. “Abby, it’s me,” he says, heavy and laboured. He doesn’t stop moving, but he does slow, and Eddie adjusts his own pace to match, staring curiously across the stairwell at him. 

“Oh, thank God,” the woman – Abby – replies, looser now. “Buck, I saw the truck on the news outside the hotel. Do I wanna know where you are?” 

Despite the exertion winding him, Buck chuckles. “Probably not,” he says. “Are you okay? How’s Maddie?” 

“She’s fine. We’re both fine,” comes Abby’s response. “A little shaken up. It’s chaos in here.” 

“It’s chaos out here, too,” Buck says. He grabs the railing and hauls himself forward another few steps. Eddie turns to grab his own and makes a valiant effort to pretend he’s not eavesdropping. 

“Listen,” Abby says, and it’s quick this time, rushed. “I can’t jam up the line. I just needed to hear your voice. Be careful, Buck. I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Buck replies. Eddie hears his own sincerity from before, in the engine, reflected back at him in the way Buck says the words, and he feels uncomfortably like an interloper, despite the fact that half the LAFD – or at the very least the rest of their engine – must be on the same channel listening in. 

“Oh, hey, and Abby,” Buck says, urgent to get her attention before she’s gone off the line. “If you hear anything from–”

There’s a sudden snapping, and it takes Eddie a second to register it as Buck’s way of trying to get his attention. He turns back to look at Buck over his shoulder, and sees Buck hesitating with his finger over the call button on his radio. 

“What’s the name of Christopher’s school?” Buck asks. 

Eddie, after a stuttering pause, while his brain comes on board to the drastic change in subject, tells him, and Buck relays the address to Abby on the radio. 

“If a call comes in,” Buck says. “Anything at all, can you let me know?” 

Abby hesitates only a moment before answering. “Will do,” she says, then the line goes quiet. 

Neither of them moves. Eddie can’t figure out how to make his feet budge from where they’re rooted to the spot, or how to speak around the lump in his throat. He stares at Buck in a way that makes his skin buzz. It feels too earnest, too open. Buck stares back the same way. 

Finally, Eddie clears his throat, and the spell breaks. “Thanks, man,” he says, raspy and low. 

Buck breaks out one of his signature megawatt smiles, steady even with his chest heaving. He pulls himself up another step, so he and Eddie are at eye level, practically on top of one another on the slanted staircase. It makes the hair stand up on the back of Eddie’s neck. 

“Gotta have your back, right?” Buck replies. 

Eddie swallows. “So, that was the infamous Abby, I take it.” 

Buck’s smile gets even brighter. Eddie swears, through the dark of the stairwell, he even sees Buck’s eyelashes flutter. “Yeah,” he says. “She’s great, right?” 

And Eddie hasn’t even met her in person yet, but he’s seen that face on enough people – buddies of his from his tours, his _abeulo_ and _abeula_ , before his _abuelo_ passed – to know that he doesn’t have to meet her to tell she’s got Buck good. 

“Come on, loverboy,” Eddie teases, nudging lightly against Buck’s shoulder with his own. Buck nearly loses his footing on the uneven ground, and Eddie laughs, reaching out with his free hand to catch him. 

“Careful with the merchandise,” Buck chastises, but once the initial panic fades, the harshness in his tone changes to something playful and breezy. 

Eddie scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You think you’re such a hot commodity?” he jokes. 

Buck puffs out his chest and really puts his biceps into it when he pulls himself forward another few steps, muscles straining against the long, dark sleeves of his button-down. “You know it,” he replies with a wry smile and a wink. 

Eddie has the sudden urge to shove him again, just to see what would happen. 

He follows dutifully behind, instead. 

* * *

Eddie doesn’t catch his breath again until Hen is found, both his feet are on solid ground, and a text from one of the administrators at Christopher’s school promises his son is safe. 

He knows he saved lives, that he offered comfort and reassurances where he could, but as the day went on, as the sun set, and situations became direr, the heavy strain of anxiety tugging at his ribs only got worse. He’s grateful to Buck for keeping the faith, keeping things light, keeping the conversation flowing. He remembers the muted hum of small talk, Buck distracting the woman from the hotel suite with the chauvinistic boss – a likely target for the #MeToo movement, had he not ended up a pancake on the sidewalk instead – a mix of friendly anecdotes and fraught gallows humour, though he couldn’t recall specifically what they said. 

Eddie’s even more grateful now, sitting in the passenger side of Buck’s Jeep, weaving through side streets and backed up traffic to make it from the station to Chris’ school. 

“Look, thanks for doing this, man,” Eddie says, glancing at Buck from the corner of his eye. His grip is so tight on the grab handle his knuckles hurt, elbow perched against the door where the frame gives way to the window pane. He feels dumb now, lending his Tía his car for the day while hers is in the shop, though, in his defense, she was supposed to be the one picking Christopher up from school, before the earth shook and put a wrench in their plans. 

“Don’t even worry about it,” Buck says, his eyes focused on the road ahead. They’ve petered out of the high-density traffic; Eddie hasn’t seen a set of tail lights for three blocks. “I wasn’t about to let you take an Uber.” 

They’re quiet again. Eddie doesn’t know what to say. He’s known Buck for two weeks, but constantly has to remind himself as much. It feels longer, the bond between them more significant. They’ve survived a grenade, and a magnitude 7.1 earthquake, and a highrise on the verge of collapse. Yet, here they are, driving to pick up a son that, until this morning, Buck hadn’t even known Eddie has, and things feel so painfully foreign and distant and new again. 

Buck must be thinking the same, because he breaks the silence with an unprompted question.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a son?”

Eddie shrugs, pursing his lips until he can find the right words to answer with. “It’s complicated,” he settles for, which he knows is nowhere near correct. 

Buck sighs through his nose. “Did you not want us to know about him?” he asks. 

“No,” Eddie says quickly, vehemently. “No way. I’m not ashamed of my son, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Buck flinches behind the wheel. Eddie feels the Jeep jerk ever so slightly to the right. “Wha- what?” he stammers. “Eddie, no. I would never think that about you.” 

Eddie slumps back in his seat. 

It takes a second longer for Buck to unwind. “I’m just saying that I don’t get it, is all,” he says finally. “If it’s not about Christopher, is it about us? About me? Did you think I would–”

“Buck, I–” Eddie interrupts before Buck can finish asking the question, but then realizes he isn’t entirely sure how to finish, himself. He knows the answer, but can’t think of a polite way to say it. After a beat, he decides on the truth, cold as it may sound. “I always think people would. And I’m sorry. I know that’s not fair to you. You didn’t do anything, or say anything.” 

Eddie releases his death grip on the grab handle to rub at his brow, thumb and pinky kneading along his temples where the pressure’s starting to build. 

“It’s just,” he continues with a profound, heavy sigh. “You let your guard down, and people surprise you, and it’s worse than whiplash. How can I protect my son if I’m not always on my guard?” 

Eddie glances at Buck sidelong and sees the other man nod, shallow but emphatic. “You said Christopher’s mom isn’t in the picture anymore?” 

The curiosity is clear in Buck’s voice, and it makes Eddie squirm. 

“I’m sorry,” Buck says, like he can sense the discomfort rolling off Eddie in waves. “That’s a really personal question. I shouldn’t have asked.” 

“No,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “It’s okay.” Still, it’s a second before he carries on with his reply. “Shannon bailed. She said she was leaving for a few weeks to take care of her mother when she got sick. Then a few weeks became a few months, which became almost three years.” 

In the quiet of the car, with the radio off, Eddie can hear Buck swallow. 

“You don’t have to apologize to me, man,” Buck says. His voice is rough and thick, and it lodges something sharp and painful in Eddie’s throat. “You’re looking out for your kid. That’s what good parents do.” 

Eddie rubs his palms against his slacks, suddenly hot and clammy. “I don’t feel like such a good parent right now,” he says. 

Buck’s brow furrows. “Why?” he asks. “Because you weren’t there with him during the earthquake?” 

Mutely, Eddie nods. 

Buck surprises him with a curt, boisterous laugh. “Oh, man,” he says. “Then have I got good news for you.” 

Reaching across the small, confined space of the Jeep, Buck drops his warm, broad palm against Eddie’s shoulder, taking his eyes from the road for a brief second to flash him a bright, coy smile. 

“Welcome to LA,” Buck says. “Believe me, there are plenty more where that came from.” 

* * *

“Dad, there’s no booster seat.” 

Eddie takes a deep breath and makes the decision to be thankful he has such a safety-conscious seven-year-old, instead of giving in to his frustration. Christoper’s making things difficult, arms and legs bracing against the open door, fighting to claw his way free even as Eddie tries valiantly to scoop him into the backseat of Buck’s Jeep. 

“I know, _mijo_ ,” Eddie says softly. He takes another breath and reminds himself Chris is likely scared and overtired as one of his crutches catches Eddie in the back of the head. Buck soft laughter from the front seat doesn’t make it any easier. 

“Don’t worry,” Buck says, twisting around to face Christopher. “I’m a really careful driver, I promise.” 

“Dad says it doesn’t matter if– if the other cars aren’t careful,” Chris protests, then, like it’s only just occurred to him, he tilts his head and adds, “who are you?” 

Buck chuckles, and it sounds fond, but Eddie still feels his cheeks heat. “Christopher, I told you,” Eddie says. “This is Buck. We work together. He’s going to drive us home, since Tía Pepa has our car.” 

“But my booster seat,” Chris tries again. 

Eddie sighs. “What if I sat back here with you?” he asks, searching for whatever compromise gets Chris in the car, much as the idea of cramming his legs into the backseat puckers his mouth. 

Like father like son, Christopher sighs too, relaxing his arms and legs, and letting Eddie manhandle him into his seat. “It’s okay, Daddy,” Chris says softly, patting Eddie’s cheek gently as Eddie leans in to fasten his seatbelt. “You can sit in the front.” 

“Are you sure?” Eddie asks, pausing long enough to stare Christopher down. 

He doesn’t flinch. “I’m sure.” 

“I promise, buddy, we’ll be home soon,” Eddie says. He places a kiss to the top of Chris’ mop of dark blonde curls, then ruffles them for good measure. 

When Eddie looks up, he meets Buck’s stare head-on and nods awkwardly. He wasn’t expecting Buck to still be watching, at least not turned around in his seat. From the way Buck blinks and flushes into his hairline, he may not have been expecting it, either. 

Eddie double checks Chris’ fingers are out of the way before closing the rear door, then opens the passenger side. He slides into his seat, buckling up and avoiding Buck’s eyes all the while. Buck clears his throat as Eddie fiddles with the latch, stubbornly ramming against a hole he can’t quite make out in the partial dark. 

They don’t speak until Buck pulls away from the curb, and Eddie finally settles back against his seat. 

“You’re really good with him,” Buck says softly. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of Eddie’s mouth. “He does most of the heavy lifting,” he replies. 

Buck nods. “Seems like a real sweet kid.” 

Eddie smiles for real this time. “Don’t I know it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos and comments! I'd love to hear from you, and it's a great way to let me know if you're enjoying the fic so far!


	6. Christopher

“Hey, is your son really the reason you don’t date?” 

Buck’s curiosity sounds idle, but something between the rush of getting Chris ready and out the door, to the drunk girls swooping him like hungry buzzards, to the way Buck is standing so close, their arms brushing with every step, tenses the muscles across Eddie’s back and prickles the hair at the nape of his neck. 

Eddie twists his lips into a tight line. “That, and they weren’t my type.” 

Buck glances at the women from over his shoulder, then leans in, bumping Eddie’s shoulder teasingly with his own. “Not mine either,” he agrees. “Not anymore.” 

And Eddie’s heard stories around the station, tales of a _Buck 1.0_ who would absolutely have put his number in that girl’s phone – hell, maybe all of their phones. He chuckles, thinking of the way Bobby’s eyebrows would have leaped into his hairline, the warning glare he’d shoot Buck’s way, that Buck would rebuke with the kind of barely-apologetic puppy dog smile that would let him get away with murder. It makes for an interesting picture. Still, Eddie thinks, he’s glad to know this Buck, instead. He can’t imagine he and _Buck 1.0_ could find as much common ground.

“But, I’m talking in general,” Buck adds. He seems genuinely curious. 

Eddie shrugs. “It’s complicated when you have a kid,” he says. 

It’s Buck’s turn to chuckle, though he sounds more disbelieving than amused. “Come on,” he says. “That’s a weak excuse.”

Eddie isn’t sure what to say to that. In some ways – the plainest, most uncomplicated ways – Buck is right. Christopher is his heart, his life, will always be his number one priority, but that doesn’t mean Eddie can’t find a woman to fit in the spaces between, where Chris and his job and his family don’t fill him up all the way.

In other ways – the messy, complicated ways that _actually_ count – Buck is incredibly, astronomically wrong. 

Eddie considers telling him more about Shannon, about how she’s here, in LA, how they’re still technically married, how the LAFD is the best in the country but maybe, just maybe, he came out here following her. Her name is on the tip of his tongue, but he just can’t bring himself to say it. 

He tells Buck instead, “says the man with the luxury of not needing to make excuses anymore.” 

Buck beams at that. “Being in a relationship, man,” he says. “Comes with all kinds of perks.” 

Eddie chuckles, but before he can say anything else, his phone rings. The vibrations tickle against his thigh, and he pulls it from his pocket. He frowns as he registers _Tía_ Pepa’s name on the caller ID, then glances quickly at Buck, just long enough for the other man to telegraph the concern written all over Eddie’s face and halt their conversation. 

“Hello,” Eddie says, thumbing _accept_ and placing the phone to his ear. 

“Edmundo.” Pepa’s voice is clear and familiar over the line. The noises in the background are loud, buzzing, so unlike the quiet of Pepa’s sleepy Burbank apartment. It sets Eddie’s nerves alight.

“ _Lo siento, sobrino_ ,” she says, soft but tense. “I know you’re at work, and normally I wouldn’t call, but Chris and your _abuela_ , _están en el hospital_.” 

Eddie’s blood freezes to ice in his veins. “What?” he whispers, panic clawing in his throat.

“ _No se que paso_ ,” she tells him, before he gets the chance to ask. “ _Llegué ahora_. _Pero, niño_ , you should be here, too.”

“Which one?” Eddie asks. His feet are moving before he knows it, making a beeline for the Captain where’s he’s stood at the ambulance debriefing with Hen and Chim. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he tells her once she rattles off the hospital name. Luckily, in his line of work, he’s well-versed on getting there quickly. 

“Cap,” Eddie says with a, deep, courteous nod, shoving his phone back in his pocket. Eddie’s worry must be plain as day on his face from the way Bobby stands instantly straighter, turning to face Eddie head-on. 

“Is everything alright?” he asks. 

Eddie twists his mouth and tries not to let his concern unwind him. “I just got a call from my aunt,” he replies. “My grandmother and my son, they’re, uh, they’re at Good Samaritan,” he says the name of the hospital like there’s gravel in his throat.

“Christopher’s in the hospital?” 

Eddie jerks in surprise as Buck comes up from behind him, a warm, steady hand landing on his shoulder, making it all the more difficult for Eddie to hide the way he’s trying not to shake. 

“What– is he okay?” Buck asks. 

Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he replies. “My aunt just got there, they haven’t told her anything.” 

“Take the ambulance,” Bobby says, an offer that catches Eddie off guard, and he blinks harshly against the sudden moisture in his eyes. “There are a few supplies that could stand for a restock, and we’re on Good Samaritan’s list. I’ll call it in.”

“I’ll go with him, Cap,” Buck volunteers. 

“Neither of you are paramedics,” Bobby argues, and Eddie curses himself for the small bloom he allowed to spread across his chest, hope that he might have a friendly face by his side to keep him grounded, that he even allowed himself to crave that support in the first place. It’s been just him and Chris long enough that he should know better than to want it. 

But Bobby surprises him again. “Take Williams, too,” he says. 

Eddie feels the breath he’s been holding leave him in a rush. 

“And listen,” Bobby adds, meeting Eddie’s gaze in a way that’s steady and unwavering and warm. Paternal. Eddie appreciates it, even if he doesn’t quite know how to deal with it. “If it’s something serious, send Buck and Williams back with the rig and just stay there, alright. I’ll call someone in off shift. There’s always someone around to bridge the gap in a situation like this, so don’t even think about that. Just focus on your family.” 

Eddie swallows thick. “Thank you, Captain Nash,” he says. He can’t keep the gravitas out of his voice. 

Cap shakes his head. “I keep telling you, son, Bobby’s fine.” 

“Come on, man,” Buck coaxes, tugging Eddie’s shirt to get his attention. Eddie turns to face him, and his eyes are big and wide and concerned in a way Eddie still hasn’t gotten used to. Buck is _genuine_ in a way Eddie isn’t used to. It’s hard to process when he’s this raw – chafes a little – but he lets Buck haul him toward the ambulance anyway, climbing into the back together and letting Williams turn the engine over up front. 

“It’s okay to be worried about them,” Buck says over the noise as they weave through traffic. He bumps their knees, arm throwing enough heat that Eddie feels it against his skin, even if they’re not quite pressed together, because it’s the height of summer, or maybe because Buck’s always that warm. 

“You think Bobby would kill us if we misused the sirens?” Eddie asks with a humourless huff and the slightest shake of his head where it’s braced in his hand, elbows poised on his thighs, back bowed under the weight of the stress he feels pushing against him, constricting his lungs. 

Buck slides over on the bench seat and bangs an open palm against the divider. “Yo, Williams,” he calls, flashing Eddie a barely-apologetic puppy dog smile. “Light it up.” 

* * *

When the ambulance pulls into the emergency bay to restock, Williams sends Eddie ahead with a nod and well wishes. 

Buck follows him to the elevator. 

The ride up is quiet, tense. Eddie stares at the floors overhead, waiting for the big _G_ to light up, for the doors to slide open, to let him be with his family, to find out what’s going on. He gnaws on his bottom lip, and Buck bumps his shoulder lightly, just enough to draw Eddie’s attention. He lets the soft, yielding flesh of his lip slip through his teeth and purses them instead. 

“Almost there,” Buck says. 

Eddie doesn’t reply at first, then, before he gets the chance, the elevator _dings_ and the doors slide open. He doesn’t look over his shoulder to see if Buck’s following behind, too determined to round the corner into the waiting room, where Pepa texted him she’d be. 

Sure enough, there she is, sat on a stiff beige sofa, stuck in a thousand-yard stare down the hall. Her fingers fidget nervously in her lap as though clutching an invisible rosary, forgotten in another purse, or the bedside table, or the glove box of her car. Her hair is done up, and her clothes are nice, but Eddie can tell, even from a distance, that for all she’s put together on the outside, inside, she’s a wreck. 

“My aunt,” Eddie informs Buck quickly, jerking his chin in her direction, rushing to her side. “ _Tía_ ,” he calls. Her attention snaps to him with laser focus, and she stands briskly from her seat. “ _Qué pasó_? Is Christopher okay?” 

He has her wrapped up in a hug, and feels the way she sags in relief as she answers. “Yes,” she assures him, patting his back, then withdrawing to point to something behind him. “You mean Prince Charming?” 

Eddie turns, and despite the worry pulling at his ribcage, the sight of Chris, happy and carefree, chatting up a couple of nurses with the world’s biggest smile glued to his face, melts some of the ice in Eddie’s veins. 

“He’s peachy,” Pepa says. “It’s your _abuela_. She broke her hip.” 

That gets Eddie’s attention back. “What?” Eddie says. “How?” 

Pepa shrugs. “She was out back on the steps,” she says. “And calling him to come inside. She lost her balance. Christopher called 9-1-1. Rescue got there really quick.” 

Eddie’s overcome with a wave of pride that just as quick dissolves into guilt. Because he put his _abuela_ in a position to get hurt, of course, but more than that, guilt that if Eddie hadn’t dropped Chris off with her this morning, he wouldn’t have been there to have the misfortune of seeing it. It’s an ugly thought, and Eddie pushes it down as soon as he thinks it, doubles down and tries to play the dutiful grandson. 

“I wanna see her,” Eddie says. 

Pepa shakes her head. “No,” she says. It’s sharp and defensive, not that Eddie can blame her. It’s her mother. “She’s sleeping now.” 

Eddie doesn’t try to argue, and Pepa softens. With the urgency of _abuela_ ’s broken hip out of the way, she takes a breath, and a look around, and seems to really notice Buck for the first time, if the interest in her expression is anything to go by. 

“And, uh, who is this?” she asks, giving Buck an appreciative once-over that Eddie does not appreciate. There’s an amusement in her tone that Eddie can’t quite place, isn’t sure he wants to. 

“This is Buck,” Eddie says. “We work together.”

Pepa hums. “I thought you just dressed alike,” she deadpans. 

“This is my aunt, Josephina,” Eddie introduces, then, with a stern glance from the woman herself, corrects, “Pepa.” 

“Hi,” Buck says. If Eddie’s surprised that Buck seems less like his charming self than usual, he isn’t anymore when Pepa brushes him off without so much as a _nice to meet you_ in response. She instead turns back to Eddie, and Eddie feels the scolding coming before she even opens her mouth. 

“You can’t keep doing this, Eddie,” she says, and not for the first time. Shame curls in Eddie’s gut, but she carries on. “You cannot keep leaving him with her. She’s not up to it.” 

“I know,” Eddie says. “I know, and I’m sorry. I– I’m trying to find some permanent help. It’s just too many forms to fill out. It’s worse than the VA.”

Pepa huffs through her nose in that way Eddie recognizes as a warning she’s about to say something he’s really not gonna like. Sure enough, she doesn’t disappoint. “I can’t believe your _gringa_ ex stuck you with all of this.”

“I’m not stuck, Tía,” Eddie tells her firmly, for what feels the millionth time, but is at least one time too many. She’s better than his parents, better than the aunties and sisters and cousins in El Paso, but just barely. He grits his teeth so he doesn’t tell her off. It’s not the time, or the place. More than that, for all the bridge is rickety, if he burns it, then where will he and Christopher be? 

“Do you have to go back to work,” Pepa asks him. Eddie doesn’t answer, which is all the answer she needs. “Ah,” she says. “And you’re not stuck?” 

Eddie closes his eyes and swallows long and hard. It feels impossible to do what he needs to next, to lay down his pride and ask her to watch Chris while he goes back to the station to finish his shift. Bobby’s words echo in his head – _just focus on your family_ – but he can’t accept the offer, kind as it is. It feels too much like a handout, and Eddie has a hard enough time taking those from his relatives. Taking one from his boss is out of the question. 

Pepa takes pity on him, and doesn’t make him ask. “I’ll keep him tonight,” she says. “But you need to get this figured out.” 

Eddie feels hollow under her gaze. Feels even worse that Buck is here to see all his struggles laid out. He can feel the other man’s eyes on him, knows he’s watching their argument, digesting it, and Eddie doesn't want to know how Buck thinks it tastes. Probably bitter, probably sour, a little acrid. The kind of thing you don’t want to go in for seconds of.

Before Eddie can wallow too much, Christopher calls to him from the other side of the room, and as always, he takes priority. Eddie doesn’t let himself think, doesn’t let himself worry. He crosses the floor and scoops Chris up into a bone-crushing hug, tells him how proud he is of him for calling 9-1-1, asks him if he’s okay, if he’s not too scared, or upset. 

He catches Buck and Pepa talking from over Chris’ mop of sandy blonde hair, and he pushes it to the back of his mind with the rest of his worries until they’re back in the ambulance and Buck does the work of bringing it up for him. 

“Your aunt,” Buck says, apropos of nothing, when they’re five minutes out from the station. Eddie isn’t sure if he’s relieved or not Buck left so little time to get to things. “She worries about you, and about Christopher.” 

“She thinks that we’re _burdened_ ,” Eddie retorts, tries not to sound as bitter as he feels about it but falls short. “It’s all very Catholic of her.” 

Buck hums. He sits across from Eddie, chewing at his bottom lip, and Eddie returns the favour from earlier by nudging their knees together until Buck stops and glances up at him with a wet, open mouth. 

“Look, man,” Buck says softly, almost too softly with the roar of the engine. “I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to be in your situation. So, I’m not gonna tell you to be patient with her, or to see the parts where she means well and overlook the rest. All I can say is that if you need something, anything, you’ve just gotta let me know, and I’ll be there.” 

“Big offer,” Eddie warns. “You sure you can live up to that?” 

Buck shrugs. He looks almost bashful. Eddie catches the flush on his cheeks in the overhead light as Buck ducks his head, then glances back up at Eddie through dark, dense lashes. “You’re my friend, Eddie,” he says, solid and strong. “I’m sure that I want to. That’s gotta count for something, right?” 

Eddie sucks in a long, slow breath. “It counts for a lot, man,” he says. 

Buck smiles so wide, Eddie sees the whites of his teeth. 

* * *

Eddie’s fingers tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls into the station, parking his truck in his usual spot while Christopher chatters happily in the backseat. If his son notices the current of anxiety pulsing heavy in the confined space of the truck, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he’s doing his level best to explain the plot of the _telenovela_ he watched with Pepa the night before. Normally, Eddie would be making a mental note to remind his _tía_ that Chris should only be watching what’s age-appropriate, but right now, he doesn't figure he has much of a leg to stand on. His childcare plan _du jour_ hardly feels age-appropriate, either. 

He texted Buck this morning, closer to dawn than is typically accepted in polite society. He felt silly even as his thumb hit _send,_ but he also felt a relief he wasn’t expecting. An unburdening, in a way, having someone to turn to. Buck offered, after all. It was only fair Eddie take him up on it. 

_There’s no one to cover my aunt’s shift. I don’t know what to do._

Because maybe, just maybe, someone else could have taken his shift, but with rent due next week, with still being a probationary trainee, and PT for Chris only partially subsidized, Eddie couldn’t imagine a worse scenario than not making it into work. 

Buck answered him back within fifteen minutes. 

_Don’t sweat it man just take Christopher with you it’ll be fine._

And even though Eddie thought that sounded stupid at the time, he didn’t have many other options. 

He still doesn’t have any other options. 

“Come on, Superman,” Eddie sighs, opening the door to his truck and unfastening his seatbelt. “Let’s go in.” 

Buck greets them at the door with a megawatt smile. He crouches down to Chris’ level and opens his arms, waits for Chris to come to him. They’re spread just wide enough that if Chris turns him down, Buck can play it off as no big deal, a simple gesture of excitement rather than a request for a hug. It’s considerate of Chris’ agency in a way Eddie isn’t used to seeing from people, especially adults. When Chris launches himself excitedly into Buck’s arms – he’s always been a hugger – something relaxes in Eddie, like a cord’s been cut between his shoulder blades. 

“Welcome to the 118, Firefighter Diaz,” Buck greets. “You ready to have a fun day?” 

Christopher beams. “Yeah,” he says with an emphatic nod. 

“Come on, buddy,” Buck says, coming to a stand and gesturing toward the stairs for Chris to lead the way. “Let’s give your dad a second to get ready, how’s that sound? The rest of the crew are upstairs, and I know they’re just dying to meet you.” 

“Okay,” Chris says, setting off for the stairs, the sound of his crutches against the concrete echoing in the cavernous room. 

Buck turns to follow behind, but Eddie stops him, reaching out to grip a hand in the soft fabric at the front of his shirt. Buck freezes, glances down at Eddie’s hand, then up through his lashes to meet his eyes. 

“Um,” Eddie starts, releasing his hold on Buck’s shirt as a warm flush crawls up the back of his neck. “Just, he might need help with the stairs, but maybe wait, until he asks you. Unless he’s really struggling. But even then, just offer to help, and if he says no, you gotta let him tough it out.” 

Buck nods. “Of course,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Everything is so simple with Buck. Eddie envies that. 

“And, uh,” Eddie adds, awkwardly clearing his throat. He’s not good with gratitude, not when it means this much. “Thank you,” he says finally. “For talking me down this morning. I was kinda freaking out.” 

Buck grins like a kid in a candy store. “Dude,” he says. “You were more than freaking out. I talked you off a ledge.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It was one text.” 

“It was a good text, though,” Buck counters. 

Whatever rejoinder Eddie means to volley back gets cut off as Chris calls to Buck from the foot of the stairs. 

“You should go watch behind him,” Eddie says. “Before he gets too impatient and tries going up himself.” 

Buck salutes him and takes off in a jog, a bright, obnoxious skip in his step that Eddie carries with him all the way to the locker room.

* * *

“What’s this?” 

Bobby’s voice from over Eddie’s shoulder hits him like a bucket of cold water. Chris is tucked into his side on the couch, giggling and carrying on with the rest of the 118, and Eddie was so delighted to hear the raucous sounds of laughter around him that he forgot why taking Chris to work with him this morning was such a bad idea.

“I don’t remember asking the Chief for any reinforcements,” Bobby continues. His tone is light and casual, but Eddie doesn’t let that take down his defenses. He knows he screwed up as much as he knows Bobby is too good a man to give him hell for it in front of his son. “You any good on the hose, kid?” he asks. 

“I can try,” Chris replies. 

Bobby smiles at him, sweet and soft. “Alright,” he says. 

Eddie stands quickly to offer an apology before Bobby can ask for one. “So sorry, Cap,” he says, explaining, “my aunt’s trying to get off work early but until then I– I didn’t know where to take him.” 

It feels shitty to admit, like a knife to the gut. 

“Yeah, you did,” Bobby says. “Right here.” 

Then, to Eddie’s surprise, he signals to Buck with the jut of his chin. “Buck gave me a heads up,” he explains. “I already cleared it with the Chief.” 

Eddie turns his wide, surprised eyes on Buck, and the other man nods back at him, solemn and sure. He hears the _I’ve got your back_ without Buck needing to say a word, and the relief hits him like a breath of fresh air. Suddenly, the fifteen-minute delay between Eddie’s text and Buck’s response Eddie attributed to the early hour takes on a whole new meaning. 

“Okay,” Eddie says, letting out a breath. “Thank you, really. And look, when we get a call–”

“Buck’s got you covered on that, too.” 

Eddie really does startle this time, because the voice is a familiar one, but entirely unexpected. Eddie follows the sound to the top of the stairs where a woman stands, in loose, high-waisted jeans, a faded grey t-shirt, and oversized glasses. Her hair is just as wavy, just as long, just the shade of strawberry-blonde Eddie expects, a mental image formed from the strands he’s found stuck to Buck’s clothes. 

Still, Abby Clark is nothing at all like Eddie expected. 

She’s older, for one thing. He’s heard whispers of _cougar_ and _cradle-robber_ around the station, but they were said enough in jest he never imagined she was more than five or six years Buck’s senior. Certainly not twice his age. 

She’s more down-to-earth than Eddie imagined, too, not done-up, or glamourous. Buck is striking – Eddie knows; the day drunk sorority girls at the cowboy bar made enough of a point about Buck’s looks to make sure everybody knew – and Abby, while he feels bad to think it, is a little plain. With everything Buck’s told him, he was expecting something _more_. He’s not sure he sees what Buck does. 

Not until, anyway, he turns to look back at Buck and sees the dazzling smile that lights up his face. He bounds out of his seat and joins Abby at her side, wrapping a hand around her waist and pulling her into a soft, familiar kiss. Abby’s answering smile is soft and dreamy, feels private in a way that crying feels private. It’s not graphic, or salacious. It’s loving. 

Eddie realizes, then, that while he was expecting Buck to be dating someone hot, he’s dating someone _cute_ , and it suits him all the more. 

“Hey,” Buck says softly, so softly Eddie almost doesn’t hear it. “Thanks for coming.” 

“Of course,” Abby replies, falling into step beside Buck as he leads her forward with a hand on the small of her back. 

“Eddie,” Buck says with a bright, beaming smile. “There’s someone I’d like you to officially meet.” 

“You must be Abby,” Eddie says, extending a hand for her to shake. Hers and soft and delicate and shockingly cold. 

“And you’re Eddie,” Abby replies with a gentle smile. Her voice is gentle, too, like her eyes when she looks up at him through the lenses of her pink-tinted glasses. Everything about her is gentle. “Buck’s told me so much about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.” 

Eddie smiles back. “Same to you,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too.” 

“All good things, I hope,” Abby jokes. From the weighty looks Buck shoots the rest of the team, and the uncomfortable silence that follows, it doesn’t quite land. 

“Abby is fully first aid certified,” Buck says, returning his attention to Eddie, and likewise, Eddie shifts his focus back to him. “And has offered to stay with Chris at the station while we’re on call.” 

“It’s my day off,” Abby says with a shrug. “I didn’t have anything else planned, so I figured, why not.” She leans forward to peer around Buck and waves at Christopher where he’s sat on the sofa, watching the whole exchange with the kind of perceptive focus only a seven-year-old can have. 

“Hi, Chris,” she says. “My name is Abby. I’m a friend of Buck’s. Is it okay if I stay here with you and keep you company when your dad has to go out with the firetruck to help people?” 

Chris seems to consider it for a moment, tilting his head. Abby scrunches up her face while she waits, whether to brace herself for his answer, or to keep her glasses from falling down the bridge of her nose, Eddie isn’t sure. It’s endearing either way. Buck’s thumb moves in idle lines, up and down, where his palm still rests against her back. 

“Okay,” Chris says finally. “If my dad says it’s okay.” 

Without further time to consider, the bell goes, loud and shrill through the station. Eddie glances over his shoulder at the trucks waiting below. “It’s okay, _mijo,_ ” he tells Chris quickly, his feet already itching to move, to go, _run_ , and get in gear. “Just be good for Abby, okay?” 

“I promise,” Chris says with a solemn nod. 

Darting forward, Eddie places a quick kiss to Christopher's forehead. He sees Buck and Abby exchange a slow, reassuring kiss of their own from the corner of his eye, then watches more closely as Abby settles into the couch at Chris’ side. They wave the 118 off together as they make for the ground floor. 

The last thing Eddie sees before shifting his brain fully into work mode is Abby, leaning into Chris’ side, whispering something in his ear that makes him giggle, and just like that, the last of the anxiety melts from Eddie’s mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for Abby and Eddie finally meeting! It only took me 20k. Also, as much as I love the "Chris goes out with the firefam" montage, it in no way feels realistic that a seven-year-old would just be Allowed To Do That. 
> 
> Reminder, kudos and comments feed me, and I'm not a zoo animal, so that's encouraged :)


	7. Childcare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter. The holidays happened, and family and friends were down, and also I got distracted by a few shiny new one-shots that I really needed to get out of my system. But I'm back, now. And I binged the first season and a half with my cousin while she was down from university during my extended absence, so I've got the memory of the show's canon fresh in my mind, and new little details I picked up that I'd like to expand on later in the fic. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy! Be sure to leave kudos and comments letting me know if you do!

Buck’s gear feels like it weighs a million pounds. 

The call is long and grueling, a multi-car pileup on the freeway. The sounds of frantic pleading from victims trapped in their vehicles, grinding metal, mangled and torn, ripping apart under the force of the Jaws, and selfish, impatient motorists laying on their horns as traffic sits bumper to bumper in an unending gridlock echo around in Buck’s skull so loud he can hardly think. They lose eight of the twelve people caught up in the crash – a whole family of four crushed to death in their minivan, toys and snacks and a spill of diapers across the pavement Buck will never forget so long as he lives – and despite doing everything in their power to help, the deck feels stacked overwhelmingly against them. 

The firetruck is a bastion of noise, between the roar of the engine, and the blast of the horn, and the sharp sound of doors swinging open and shut. Buck doesn’t say a word on the ride back to the station.

No one does. 

When they finally pull in, Buck is the first to climb down. He waits by the open door as Hen and Chim exit next for Eddie, who’s been even more quiet than usual sitting to Buck’s left. 

“You good?” Buck asks. 

Eddie lifts his gaze from the floor between his feet. “Yeah, man,” he says with a curt, decisive nod. “I’m good.” 

He slides forward across the bench seat, and it’s so natural for Buck to reach out a hand to help Eddie down. Eddie doesn’t hesitate – he wraps his grip around Buck’s forearm and lets Buck guide him. He lands solidly at Buck’s side, and Buck claps him on the shoulder. He forgets sometimes, for all Eddie’s skill, for all his confidence, he’s still new to this job. While Buck’s never asked, he knows Eddie’s _seen things_ on deployment, but it’s gotta be hard even still. Especially with the horror so close to home. 

“You did everything you could,” Buck whispers, squeezing Eddie’s shoulder reassuringly where his hand rests. 

Eddie’s mouth pulls down at the corners. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s the part that makes it worse.”

A frown furrows the space between Buck’s brows, and he opens his mouth to ask Eddie to elaborate, but he doesn’t get the chance. 

“Hi, daddy!” Christopher’s voice rings clear and bright through the tension floating in the air like fog. Buck and Eddie follow the sound upward to the railing of the loft, where Chris peers over the edge with Abby at his side. Chris waves exuberantly, and Eddie waves back, smiling up at his son. Buck feels the tension knot tighter in Eddie’s shoulders, and he drops his hand back to his side. 

“I’ll be up in a minute, buddy,” Eddie calls. 

Buck shifts his focus from Christopher to Abby. He catches her worried stare from over Chris’ shoulder, the way her face is slack and open save for the little pinching of skin between her eyebrows. She tilts her head, and Buck replies with a tiny shake of his own. 

_Not a good call_. 

Buck doesn’t hear Abby’s words, but she says something, leaning in close to Christopher’s ear. Her hands rub absently against his upper arms, and whatever her suggestion, Chris must take to it kindly, breaking out a big, excited grin and stepping back from the railing, tugging Abby along with him. Abby glances back to smile softly at Buck, and some of the weight eases from his shoulders. 

“Go change, man,” Buck tells Eddie, looking over in time to catch the exhaustion spelled out on his face before he has time to slip the mask back in place. 

“The gear–” Eddie tries protesting lamely, but Buck cuts him off. 

“I’ve got it,” he says. “Just go.” 

Eddie gives him a slow, thankful nod, then heads off in the direction of the locker room, where Hen and Chimney are gathering their toiletries to hit the showers.

It takes Buck less time than he anticipates to catalog the gear and make sure all is clean and in order for their next call. For as grueling as the accident was, it didn’t expend many of their resources with how many people were DOA. He makes quick work of jogging over to the locker room to grab his own toiletries. Then, Buck makes a beeline for the showers down the hall. 

He stops short at the sound of his teammates’ voices from around the corner. 

“Honestly, I’m surprised she showed up.” That’s Chimney, tight and nasal. “Nothing says _responsible adult_ like leaving a guy in the lurch for three months while you’re off soul-searching.” 

Buck’s stomach churns. 

“Amen to that,” Hen replies, a warm, honey drawl. “Look, Abby’s nice and all, but I don’t trust her. Not after doing our boy like that.” 

Anger flares hot and wild up the column of Buck’s spine. His abs tremble, like his hands do – like his legs do. Every part of him is filled with the sharp, hot kind of rage that’s dangerous, that doesn’t belong in polite company, and that definitely shouldn’t be unleashed on coworkers. But Buck’s powerless to stop himself now that the cork’s let off. He’s rocketing forward, taking one step, then another. 

Until another voice freezes him in place. 

“Buck trusts her.” 

Eddie’s voice is strong, and gravelly, and irritated in a way Buck can sense even without seeing him. The quiet from the hall feels deafening, broken only by the semi-rhythmic sound of shoes shuffling guiltily on the floor.

“And, frankly, I don’t know why you two are still holding a grudge when it’s clearly bothering him,” Eddie continues. 

There’s a breath of silence with no response, then, Chimney says, “she jerked him around.” 

“So?” Eddie snaps. “People mess up. Are you honestly telling me you’ve never done anything worth someone getting mad over? Guys, come on, you're grownups. Let it go. Buck loves her. Giving her the cold shoulder isn’t gonna push her away. But it might push him.” 

Buck leans heavy against the wall, the chill seeping through his clothes and running up his spine, even as tears prickle hot against the back of his eyes. He stands eerily still, quiet, and waits until he hears Hen and Chim’s faint, chagrined murmurs, and the noise of the shower room doors swinging open and shut on their squeaky hinges. 

Eddie’s ire unfurled something in Buck, a hot, heavy ball in the pit of his stomach he’s been carrying around since Abby came back to a less than warm welcome from the 118. He was patient with their anger at first, but as time went on, as his own anger and hurt feelings faded and theirs did not, Buck’s felt more alone than he has in a long time. 

The 118 is supposed to be a team, a unit – dare he think it, a _family_ – and being the only person on Abby’s side is exhausting. The weight of their disapproval has been sitting heavy on his back, and just like that, Eddie’s lifted it, eased the burden so he won't have to shoulder it alone. It’s unintentional, but it means everything to Buck. He stays with his back pressed to the wall until his breathing evens out, and his hands stop shaking. 

Pushing forward, Buck joins the others in the showers like nothing’s changed at all. The mood is still somber, between the pileup, and the argument to which neither Chim or Eddie know Buck’s been privy, but soon, Chim’s razzing him about taking so long to clean up the truck, and Eddie’s bemoaning the poor water pressure, wondering if Hen’s faring any better in the ladies’ room where there are fewer nozzles turned on at once. 

They meet Hen at lockers, then climb the stairs together, teasing Chim about a near-miss with a chunk of upturned asphalt at a call earlier in the week. Bobby has something with onions and garlic on the go in the kitchen from the smell, and the gentle sizzle that carries across the open space. 

When they get to the top, Eddie shoots an arm out and Buck stops short, Hen and Chimney coming to a halt just behind. The heat of his body through Buck’s work uniform holds his focus for an unhelpful second as he tried to piece together why Eddie’s brought them to a standstill, but a quick jerk of Eddie’s chin finally clues him in. 

Chris and Abby are perched on the edge of the couch, Chris’ backpack open on the cushion beside them, an assortment of markers and color pencils spread out across the coffee table. They’re each hunched over their own piece of paper, so focused on their work, they haven't heard the team climbing the stairs. Christopher's tongue pokes out from the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on his drawing, hand passing carefully across the page. 

“Hey, Abby,” Chris says, setting down his pencil and tapping Abby’s shoulder. 

“Yes, sweetie?” Abby asks, dropping her marker and tilting her head to give Chris her full attention. 

“Could you pa–pass me the red one?” he asks. 

Abby smiles and grabs two art supplies from the table, one in each hand. “The marker or the color pencil?” she asks. 

Chris reaches out for the choice on her left. “Colour pencil, please,” he replies, gripping the pencil and turning back to his drawing. “Thank you, Abby.” 

“You’re very welcome,” Abby replies with a sweet, gentle smile. She watches Chris for another moment with the same soft, smitten expression, then turns back to her own drawing, placing the red marker back in Christopher’s pencil case. Buck’s heart flutters in his chest watching them together. 

“Okay,” Hen says with a sigh, surprising Buck enough to make him startle. He turns back to look at her over his shoulder, and sees the determined, if slightly guilty, look on hers and Chimney’s faces. “She’s out of the dog house.” 

Buck smiles. “You guys are Team Abby again?” 

Chim tilts his head. “When were we not Team Abby?” he replies, but with enough remorse in his tone it feels like an admission – _we should have been Team Abby all along_. 

Chimney ducks around them to make for the kitchen, calling out an enthusiastic, “what’s cooking, Cap,” and alerting Chris and Abby to their presence. Chris’ whole face lights up, and he grabs his drawing excitedly, waving it in their direction. 

“Daddy,” he calls. “Come– come see what I did.” 

“Okay, buddy,” Eddie says with a small chuckle and a beaming smile. Buck’s posture relaxes, finally hearing some genuine joy from the other man. “I’m coming.”

He rushes over to Christopher’s side, and Buck’s about to join him, but stops when Hen’s hand lands on his shoulder. He looks back at her and freezes, caught off-guard by the sincerity in her eyes. 

“We really are, sorry, Buckaroo,” she says. “For everything.” 

Before Buck can reply, Hen’s moved around him, joining Chim and Bobby in the kitchen. He watches after her for a breath, processing her words, her apology, the way it eases the pressure off his lungs. 

When he turns back to the sofa, both Eddie and Abby have noticed, looking at him with twin expressions of concern. Buck shakes his head, blinks to clear his eyes, and offers them both a real, genuine smile as he walks over to join them. 

“Hey, Christopher,” Buck greets, and Christopher welcomes him with a toothy, lopsided smile that turns Buck’s heart to goo. “How goes the artwork?” 

Chris turns his paper around to show off his work. The lines are a little shaky, but they’re better than any of Buck’s drawings at that age. 

“I drew you and daddy,” Christopher explains, pointing to each boxy figure standing next to a long, red rectangle on wheels, and a squiggle of reds, yellows, and oranges. “Pu–putting out a big fire.” 

“Wow,” Buck says, crouching down to Chris’ eye level and really taking the drawing in. “You did such an awesome job,” he says. 

Chris frowns. “I–I was gonna draw everyone, but I ran out of room,” he explains. 

“Hey,” Buck says, reaching out to rub Christopher’s arm reassuringly, until the little guy’s smiling again. “That okay. It just means you get to make an even bigger drawing next time.” 

Chris’ face lights up at the prospect of a bigger drawing, and he’s all whoops and cheers, shimmy-dancing in his seat, until Bobby breaks up the celebration by announcing, “lunch is served.” 

“Here,” Eddie says, passing Chris is crutches and helping him to his feet. “Go ahead, _mijo_. You can check and see if Bobby has any magnets to put that up on the fridge, okay?” 

“Okay,” Christopher calls back, eager to follow his nose to the food plating up in the kitchen. 

Buck's not far behind him. He offers Abby his arm, and she takes it, leaning against his side and pressing a quick, comforting kiss to the tip of his shoulder before moving to join the rest of the 118 for their meal before the alarm can sound again. 

Eddie stops them in their tracks. He spins on his heels and meets them with wide, wild eyes, arms unfolded. 

“Hey, look, both of you,” he says. “This– this is really– I didn’t know what I was gonna do with him today, and you two, you really came through, and I–” 

Eddie makes a small, uncertain sound and Buck chuckles, puts him out of his misery. “I think the word you’re looking for is _thank you_ ,” he says. “And honestly, man, don’t even bother. Anytime you need something, you just have to ask.” 

“Plus,” Abby adds. “Christopher’s a really sweet kid. I say this as someone with nieces and nephews. The big ask here is going to be getting me to give him back.” 

Eddie beams. “Yeah,” he says, turning to watch as Christopher settles in at the table, Bobby placing a plate of grilled cheese in front of him with the same kind of anxious trepidation a Michelin reviewer would merit. “He gets that a lot.” 

* * *

Chris goes home with Pepa at three, when she’s finally able to get away from work, and the station is quiet for the rest of Buck’s shift without him. Abby goes home shortly after, and Bobby sends her home with a Tupperware container of chili for her help, despite her insistence it was no trouble at all.

The apartment smells like warm cumin and stewed tomato when Buck gets home around eight. 

“Should still be hot,” Abby calls to him as he slides his shoes off at the door. He makes a beeline for the kitchen and fills a bowl to the brim, then grabs a wine glass and heads into the living room where Abby’s curled up on the sofa with her own steaming serving, and a bottle of red. 

“Thanks, babe,” Buck says, leaning in for a slow, gentle kiss, then settles on the middle cushion and pulls Abby’s legs across his lap. 

“Everything go alright after I left?” she asks. 

Buck hums. “It was okay,” he replies. “The hard call was this morning.” 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Abby asks. She nudges his chest with her knees, a light, gentle pressure that grounds him. 

“There were a couple of kids that didn’t make it,” Buck says. His eyes, suddenly heavy, fall shut, and he sees the bright crimson of their blood against the blackness. “One of them wasn’t even old enough to be out of a car seat yet.” 

“Jesus,” Abby breathes, shuffling until she’s pressed against Buck’s side, head resting on his shoulder, practically sat in her lap. She’s warm and heavy in a way that’s pleasantly familiar, settles the storm brewing in his bones. 

Buck shudders. “It’s just hard, is all,” he says. “I know Hen and Cap took it really bad, and Eddie.” 

“It has to be terrible,” Abby whispers. “Losing a child when you’ve got one of your own.” 

“I think it’s good that Christopher was there today,” Buck says. “Especially for Eddie.” 

Abby shifts against Buck’s chest, changes the angle of her head to take a sip of wine before she replies. “He really is a great kid,” she says. 

Buck presses a kiss to the top of her head. “You were great with him.” 

Abby squirms, almost imperceptibly, but Buck catches it where they’re pressed so close together. It feels like a sensitive topic, like he’s stumbled on a landmine, but they’ve never talked about kids before, or plans for the future more concrete than Buck officially moving in, and they’re at a point in their relationship where Buck’s starting to think about it, what it would be like put a ring on her finger, a kid or two in their spare room. It’s all still fluid, still amorphous when he thinks about it, but he wants to know where she stands, so he can start seeing things more clear. 

“Why didn’t you ever have kids?” Buck wonders. He skims his fingers up her arm, runs them through her hair at her scalp, to keep them both calm, steady. 

Abby shrugs. “I guess I never really wanted them,” she replies. “Or, at least, I didn’t want them more than I wanted the right relationship to have them in. And that? That isn’t something I ever found. Not until it was too late.” 

She says the last part wistfully, tinged with the faintest traces of regret, and Buck shifts, putting his bowl of chili down on the coffee table, then grabbing Abby’s bowl and glass to do the same, so they can sit together face to face, her hands held gently in his. 

“You mean this relationship?” he asks. 

Abby sighs. She twists her lips and shifts her gaze away, staring over Buck’s shoulder as her eyes well up with unshed tears. “I’m too old for babies, Buck,” she says. A stray tear slides down her cheek, and despite the way Buck’s heart is aching in his chest, he doesn’t hesitate to reach up, cupping her cheek and wiping it away with his thumb. She leans into him. 

“I’ll be forty-three next month,” Abby continues. “And it’s not just an issue of being physically able to get pregnant without needles and hormones and doctor’s visits. I don’t know if I have the energy anymore to give to a baby, to be up all night, to chase them around when they’re learning to walk. 

“And then, you know, by the time they’re old enough to leave home I’ll be, what, in my sixties?” Abby says. “Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when she was sixty-seven. I know that anything could happen to one of us, because of your job, or the way people drive around in this city.” 

It’s a cheap, LA traffic joke, but it pulls a laugh from Buck anyway, cuts through some of the room’s tension. He strokes Abby’s cheek and she turns her head to place a kiss against the pulse at his wrist, something delicate, and a little sad. 

“But there’s a difference,” Abby whispers. “Between accepting the possibility that something _might_ happen, and ignoring the fact that something _will_. I’m old, and I’m only gonna keep getting older. I can’t stop the clock, not even if it’s to see my kids graduate from college, or get married, or have kids of their own. 

“Losing Mom hurt like I was the one dying,” she tells him, and his heart breaks for her, just as sharply as it did the morning she found the body and called him from the funeral home in tears. “And I don’t wanna put my child through that when their life’s still only just getting started. I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, no,” Buck says, shaking his head and cupping her neck with both hands to look her in the eyes. “You don’t have to be sorry. I get where you’re coming from.” 

“Doesn’t mean it’s what you want,” Abby replies with a sad, tired smile. “You love kids. I know you’d make such a great dad. I think about you with a brand new baby, holding them, rocking them, singing them to sleep, and it’s just so right. And I don’t want to deprive you of that.” 

Buck sucks in a shuddering breath. “I do love kids,” he agrees, pressing closer until his and Abby’s foreheads touch, breathing in the same air. “But I love you more. If you’ve been waiting your whole life for the right relationship, then so have I. And, Abby? You are it for me. So, if little babies are off the table in the long run, then we talk about starting to try right now, or adopting a kid who’s a little older. Maybe we take kids off the table altogether. But whatever we decide, we’ll do it together, okay? Because I love you. You are my family. And whatever that family looks like, the way I feel about you, that’s not gonna change.” 

Abby sniffles. “You’d really start trying for a baby right now if I asked you to?” she wonders. 

Buck shrugs, suddenly sheepish hearing his own dramatic declaration parroted back at him. “I mean, yeah,” he says. “I think you’d make a great mom, too, and I already know you’re a great partner. We’ve got a roof over our heads, steady jobs, a good support network. Why not?” 

Abby closes the last of the distance between them and captures Buck’s lips in a greedy, searing kiss. “You’re amazing,” she whispers, soft and slow against his mouth. “I’m not ready to make that kind of decision right now, but can I think about it?” 

“Yeah,” Buck says. “Of course you can. Sorry if I’m coming on way too strong.” 

“No,” Abby says, shaking her head. “You’re not.”

She kisses him again, and Buck feels so loose, so open, and safe, and vulnerable under her touch all at once. 

“And, Buck?” Abby adds, pulling away to hold his cheeks between her palms and stare into his eyes. She’s so frim, so sure, Buck’s heart stutters in his chest. “You’re it for me, too.” 


	8. Carla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't originally planning on having chapters from Abby's POV, but this actually fit kind of perfect, so here we are. I'll probably do more chapters from her POV going forward, but they won't be as often as Buck or Eddie chapters, since she doesn't really have an arc the way they do (or at least, I don't have an arc for her _yet_ , we'll see what happens)
> 
> As always, if you like this chapter, be sure to leave kudos and comments. They keep me motivated, and I really appreciate them!

The air is still unseasonably warm for mid-October, and Abby quickens her pace through the parking garage, the promise of an air-conditioned workspace keeping her cool, even as sweat beads down the back of her neck. Even in the height of summer, her European travels had never brought her the kind of weather that made her long for a functioning HVAC system, and she’d both loved it and missed it in equal measure. 

“I still can’t believe Eddie’s been in LA for, what, six, seven months? And he still doesn’t have a decent childcare system in place.” 

Abby glances over her shoulder at Maddie, who’s pulling her lanyard out of her purse and sliding it over her neck, a quick hop in her step as she tries to keep pace while distracted. 

“You sound judgemental,” Abby says, quirking her eyebrow. 

Maddie picks her gaze up from the zipper she’s trying to wrangle shut and huffs. “Sorry,” she says. “Hands-off parenting is kind of a trigger for me.” 

Abby frowns. “Eddie doesn’t seem hands-off. More like he’s in over his head.” 

“There’s a fine line before that’s the same difference,” Maddie argues.

They make it to the elevator bay at the end of the parking garage, and Abby watches Maddie from the corner of her eye as Maddie presses the call button. Her posture is stiff, face blank and impassive. She and Buck have the same mask of indifference, Abby notes, but Maddie’s significantly better at upholding it. Buck is all compassion, and easy to wear down when he gets his back up. Maddie is harder, _tougher_ , in a way that makes her much more difficult to read. Not unempathetic, but cautious, maybe, like giving people the benefit of the doubt’s burned her one too many times. 

“I can appreciate your concern,” Abby says, patient and level, not trying to get on Maddie’s bad side when they’ve taken to carpooling together on days where their shits line up. “But you haven’t seen them together. Eddie loves that kid to death. And Chris? He’s patient, intuitive. They’re a good team.” 

Maddie shakes her head. “Kids shouldn’t have to be patient,” she says. “And a parent isn’t a teammate. You’re not down in the trenches together. One person is a child, and the other person is the adult responsible for looking after them.” 

Abby bites her tongue. She doesn’t want to get in an argument before her shift, can’t afford to designate any of her headspace to personal problems when she’s about to be fielding a city’s worth of people in distress, when she’s supposed to be the calm, impartial, superhuman voice on the other side of the line.

Like Maddie can sense the tension in her shoulders, she blows out a breath. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I must sound like a raging bitch.” 

The admission shocks Abby, and she flinches, lets out a small, startled noise. The elevator arrives with a soft _ding_ , and the doors slide open to an empty car. They step in together, Maddie pressing the button for their floor, and Abby shakes her head, collects herself. 

“No, it’s not–” she stammers, then tries, “you aren’t being–”

“A bitch?” Maddie interrupts. She’s got a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and Abby’s shoulders relax. “I mean, I definitely am. It’s a Buckley family trait. We’re kinda hard-headed, or have you not run into that yet?” 

Abby pulls up a handful of memories of Buck’s face, brows pinched, mouth held gently apart as ire and indignation fuel him into putting down his foot, and she can’t help but chuckle. “I didn’t realize it was familial,” she replies. 

Maddie shrugs. “Well,” she says. “It is.” 

The doors open again as the elevator comes to a halt, and Abby steps out, but pauses on her way to the staff room as Maddie rests a hand on her arm. 

“I really wasn’t trying to make Eddie out to be the bad guy,” Maddie whispers, searching for a moment of privacy, even as the hallway hums with activity around them. “My only concern is for Christopher. The care a kid gets at this age impacts the rest of their life. Of course, he’s gonna be fine, I just think it would be really sad if he didn’t get a chance to thrive, you know?” 

She doesn’t give Abby a chance to respond, pats her on the arm instead and takes off down the hall. Abby stands, rooted in place, for longer than she means to, lost in thought. She knows Maddie’s letting her history colour her opinion, would know something personal is affecting her view even without Buck confiding in her about their past, without knowledge of how things were in Maddie’s relationship with Doug. 

Still, there’s a small part of Maddie’s logic that makes sense, and it breaks Abby’s heart that there isn’t more she can do to help someone who goes to work every day with the love of her life and would put his own life on the line without hesitation to keep him coming home to her. 

* * *

Buck ends up being the one to realize there might be something they can do after all. 

“You’re still off tomorrow night, right?” Abby asks as she runs a wide, flat brush through the thick waves of her hair, near the back where the constant motion of her neck against her collar and the twisting of each strand has left small knots and mats. 

Buck shuts off the tap and flicks his hands in the bowl of the sink to get the excess water off, before reaching for the towel hung over the ring. “Yeah,” he says. “Why?” 

“I asked Carla to come by for dinner,” Abby says. “She just lost one of her long-term care patients, and I thought she could stand to see some friends. Plus, until they reassign her, she’ll have a few days where her workload isn’t as heavy, so we might actually be able to be in the same place at the same time for once.” 

Buck stills, hands still wrapped in the soft pink terrycloth, and tilts his head. It’s his thinking face, Abby recognizes it instantly from the cute little furrow it puts between his brows, and she frowns in response.

“What is it?” she asks. 

Buck lowers his hands. “How exactly does Carla’s job work?” he asks. “Like, does she choose her own assignments, or does she just have to go wherever they send her?” 

Abby sets her brush down on the counter and opens the overhead cabinet to grab a face cloth as she tries to pull up past conversations from memory. “I think it’s mostly that she goes where she’s assigned,” she says. “She did mention once that she can ask to be placed on a specific case if it’s less of a commute, or if it suits her schedule better. She’s got a lot of seniority.”

Buck is quiet again, nodding to himself as he pulls his toothbrush from the holder. Abby wets her cloth quickly and wrings out the excess moisture, then asks, “why, what are you thinking?” 

“Eddie,” Buck says, and just like that, Abby knows exactly what’s on Buck’s mind, what’s had him so quiet over the past few days. It's the same thing that’s been on her mind since Buck nudged her awake in the wee hours of the morning on her day off to ask if she’d do him a favour. 

“It’s like Maddie said, you know,” he continues. “The best person to navigate all the red tape Eddie’s been stuck in is someone who does it day in, day out. And, I mean, even if Carla couldn’t work with them in the long run, maybe she could sit down with Eddie, you know? Just to help him wade through all the bullshit. He’s doing what he can, he just–”

“Needs a hand?” Abby suggests. 

Buck nods. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe it’s a stupid suggestion.” 

“It’s not,” Abby replies. 

“I just don’t want Eddie to feel like I’m stepping on his toes,” Buck explains. “Or like I’m trying to say that I don’t think he can do it on his own, or that he’s been doing a bad job.”

Abby shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s what you’re saying at all,” she says. “And I don’t think that’s how Eddie’ll take it.” 

She steps in close, so she can rest her hands gently on Buck’s chest and trace gentle patterns against bare skin. Her fingers track familiar, geometric lines until some of the tension eases from his muscles. 

“He’s already come to you for help,” Abby says. “And you did. You helped him.”

Buck smoothes the skin between her brows with his thumb and smiles at her softly. “You helped him, too,” he adds. 

Abby flushes, warm and happy, in her chest. “I think Eddie is someone with a lot of pride,” she explains. “And sometimes, with proud people, you just have to take a bit of initiative. Once you’re able to provide someone with that lifeline they’ve been so desperately needing? You don’t have to worry about whether or not you’re doing the right thing anymore, because it’ll be pretty obvious that you are.” 

Abby moves her fingers to the squiggle of a line tattooed on his shoulder and adds, her voice quiet, almost inaudible, “like you did for me.” 

“You know,” Buck whispers, reaching up to warp his hot, steady palms around her wrists. “Bobby told me something, once. He said, ‘ _you can’t rescue people from their suffering, but you can get in the box and go through it with them_ ’ and honestly, that’s one of the best lessons I feel like I ever learned being with you.

“I wasn’t exactly the most humble person, myself, before we got together,” Buck adds with a small, self-deprecating chuckle. 

“Oh, no, really?” Abby deadpans. “I feel like I never would have known that if you hadn’t just told me.” 

“Hey, not nice,” Buck protests, but it’s airy and playful and punctuated with a quick, sweet kiss that still kicks up butterflies in her stomach. “I thought I didn’t need people, not in a way that really mattered,” he continues, their foreheads still pressed together so Abby can feel the vibrations every time he speaks. “But you, and the 118, all of you really showed me how to be a part of something bigger than myself. It’s why I can reach out to Eddie, now, and offer him the same thing. So, you know, thank you.”

Abby shakes her head. “You never have to thank me for caring about you,” she says. She rocks up onto her tiptoes to kiss him slow and sweet, feels the way his heart beats under her hands, the way his hands twitch around her wrists. 

“Yeah, I do,” Buck replies, and it’s such a heavy, weighty thing that Abby doesn’t try to argue. 

“We’ll ask Carla,” she says instead. “At the very least, I’m sure she’ll be willing to sit down with Eddie and walk him through his options.” 

“Okay,” Buck says, with something like relief sagging his shoulders. 

Honestly, Abby feels it, too.

* * *

“I thought you said we were helping your sister move,” Eddie says, taking a conspiratorial look around the apartment as he paces. Buck follows anxiously on his heels while Abby stands back, bracing her side against the archway between the kitchen and the living space. “It doesn’t look like she’s packed anything.” 

“Probably because all this stuff is mine,” Abby offers helpfully. 

Eddie’s frown only deepens. 

“I lied about the whole moving thing,” Buck supplies. Abby hears more cocky, self-satisfaction in his voice than remorse, even when Eddie levels them both with the kind of wide, confused puppy eyes that are enough to make her insides squirm with guilt over their small act of deception. 

“I mean, my sister is moving,” Buck adds. “It’s just, she doesn’t really have that much stuff.”

Eddie cocks his head. “What’s going on, Buck?” he asks. 

He’s got his back to her, but Abby hears the smile in Buck’s voice. “I brought you here,” he says. “‘Cause there’s someone I want you to meet.” 

There’s a long, pregnant pause as Buck’s words sink in. Abby watches Eddie’s expression shift from confused, to annoyed, then into some third emotion that might be bemusement. At the very least, it’s resignation. 

“You didn’t set me up, did you?” Eddie asks. 

“No,” Buck says quickly, nearly cutting Eddie off. “Ju-just trust me. This woman is exactly what you need.” 

And Eddie must, because when he turns his gaze from Buck to Abby pressed against the archway, it’s with a quirk in his lips and twinkling eyes. “You’re in on this, too?” he accuses. 

Abby shrugs, but can’t repress her small, delighted smile. “The woman, yes,” Abby admits. “The misleading surprise introduction? That’s Buck’s brainchild.”

“Wait, misleading?” Eddie asks, but a knock on the door interrupts that line of questioning. 

“She’s here,” Buck announces, and practically skips to the door. Eddie looks imploringly at Abby, like she’ll be able to make sense of it all for him, but all she does is follow after Buck, motioning for Eddie to do the same. 

Buck swings open the door, and an enthusiastic, “Buckaroo,” greets him on the other side. 

Carla sweeps Buck up in the kind of deep, friendly, familiar hug Abby loves to watch him melt under. He’s so tactile, maybe even more tactile than he realizes, and any time someone’s got their hands on him, his shoulders always seem a little lighter. 

“Goodness, I missed that face,” Carla says, and Buck snorts. 

“Since last night?” he asks. 

Carla hums. “You know it.” 

Eddie’s still hanging back, a little unsure, and Abby turns to him, places a hand on his arm to cajole him forward. “Don’t panic,” she whispers. “We’re not setting you up. At least, not the way you think.” 

“Eddie,” Buck says, one hand on the small of Carla’s back, leading her into the apartment, the other beckoning Eddie over. “This is a good friend of ours, Carla.” 

Carla extends a hand, and Eddie finds his manners quickly, reaching out to shake it. 

“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” Carla greets, and Eddie replies, “likewise,” with a polite, if wary smile. 

“Carla is LA’s finest home healthcare aide,” Buck explains. It’s enough to ease some of the tension in Eddie’s shoulders, turn his smile a little more genuine. 

“She worked with my mother, before she passed away,” Abby adds, and gets a gentle touch on the elbow from Carla in reply, the kind of instinctive, non-verbal show of comfort she’s come to expect after months of friendship. “Trust me, no one knows how to navigate the ins and outs of in-home care quite like this woman. She’s a godsend, really and truly.” 

Carla purses her lips and blinks hard. “Now, don’t go getting all mushy on me, you,” she warns with a playful swat to Abby’s arm.

“Abby and I,” Buck says, “We thought she could help you figure out how to get Christopher what he needs.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Abby tells Buck with a shake of her head before turning to Eddie to set the record straight. “It was Buck’s idea, I just happened to agree it was a good one.” 

There’s a certain softness, a kind of peace in Eddie’s expression, when he turns his gaze from Abby to Buck. She can see the gratitude, the appreciation. There's a watery sort of emotion shining in his eyes that can only come from feeling seen, feeling validated, feeling held up. It’s a look Buck’s garnered from her on many occasions, one she tries her best to pull from him whenever he needs similar comfort. It looks good on Eddie, like some of the stress brewing just under his skin has gone quiet. 

“And, so did I,” Carla says, drawing back Eddie’s attention, if a bit slow and reluctant. “I’m red tape’s worst nightmare. I’ll get you through this in no time. Now, let’s go sit down, and let’s see what you’re working with."

She hardly takes a step forward before adding, "besides that perfect bone structure,” sly, but loud enough it’s meant to be heard. Abby can’t help from calling out, “down, girl,” even as Carla swans into the dining room, leaving the melodic, raspy sound of her laughter behind.

“You want coffee?” Buck asks. 

“Yes, please,” Carla calls back. 

Abby sighs and shakes her head. “I’ll start the kettle,” she says. 

She makes to turn back to the counter where the electric kettle sits, half-full with water from the morning, but stops when Eddie clears his throat. 

“Hey, listen,” Eddie starts. 

Buck cuts him off with a shake of his head. “You don’t need to say _thank you_ , remember?” he says. “Just go in there and work out a way to get your son the extra help he needs.” 

Eddie nods, firm but still a little unsure as his feet shuffle awkwardly against the tile floor. 

“Two sugar, no cream, right?” Buck asks, raising his eyebrows and giving Eddie a stern, dismissive kind of look that sets him into motion again. 

He nods. “Yeah, that’s it.” 

“We’ll bring it in when it’s ready,” Abby says, and finally, Eddie leaves, making his way into the dining room to join Carla, who’s pulling document holders out of her purse and spreading them across the table. 

“See?” Abby whispers, leaning in to press her cheek against Buck’s chest, his arm wrapping around her waist on instinct to hold her close. “It’s obvious, right.” 

Buck presses a kiss to the top of her forehead. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty obvious.” 

* * *

Eddie tilts his head, gaze darting between Maddie’s sofa, and the door to her new apartment, and Abby can feel the skin pinching between her brows. “Maybe we pop the hinges off the door.”

Buck hums. “Or we use the jaws of life,” he counters. 

Eddie points at Buck, with a lazy little wag, like he’s come up with an actual, solid plan, and Abby finally jumps in to intervene. 

“Or one of you geniuses could pass me the pizzas so you can turn the damn thing,” she suggests. 

Buck and Eddie turn to look at her with wide, surprised eyes, and she shakes her head. “Men,” she sighs. “Why do something in two easy steps when you could do it in one difficult one?” 

Buck frowns. “I was trying not to make extra work for you,” he says. 

Abby raises an eyebrow. “You know,” she says. “No one who volunteers to help someone move expects to just stand around and look pretty, except that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. All day. So, just, give me a box, give the pizzas, give me something to do that makes this whole thing–” she gestures in circles between Buck, and Eddie, and the new sofa, still in its plastic “–easier.” 

Eddie chuckles, rich and deep, while Buck flutters his lashes at her like a kicked, confused puppy. 

“Here,” Eddie says, grabbing the stack of boxes from the top of the couch where they’re perched. “Take these.” 

Abby does, with a nod, and a sanctimonious, “thank you.” 

Eddie smiles a wry, crooked smile. “Although,” he says. “As far as just standing around looking pretty goes, you’ve been doing a good job.” 

It’s light, and friendly, and casual, but it still flusters her a bit, has her blushing under the frames of her glasses, suddenly bashful. She glances up at him, and he winks at her, teasing, playful. 

“Hey,” Buck interrupts, indignant, but in a way that sounds more surprised and amused than offended. “That’s supposed to be my line.” 

“Then stop standing there like a Disney Princess and get your head in the game, man,” Eddie ribs. Buck chuckles, shakes his head and nudges Eddie with his shoulder on his way by. They each crouch down and pick up one end of the sofa, shifting it on its side to maneuver it through the door. 

“Pivot,” Eddie says, and he’s dead serious, but Buck shouts back, “ _PIVOT_ ,” in his best Ross Gellar impression, and Eddie loses it. He giggles in this bright, light way that reminds Abby that, despite having a shining record of service, and a school-aged child, Eddie’s still so _young_. 

“That doesn’t sound like people being careful with my sofa,” Maddie hollers from inside the apartment, shrill with concern. 

Abby chuckles. “Don’t worry,” she calls back. “They’re being supervised.” 

They make it through the door with the sofa unscathed, and Abby takes a minute to admire the way Buck’s muscles flex and strain as they set it down. She’s got the perfect line of sight to check out Eddie’s ass in his well-fitting jeans as he crouches, too, and if her eyes linger longer than is entirely polite, well, she’s only human, and Eddie is _hot_. 

“Hey, thank you, guys,” Maddie says, glancing up from the tablet Chimney’s holding between them as Eddie, Abby, and Buck move farther into the soon-to-be-furnished living room. “For helping me on your day off.”

With Eddie’s hands free, he takes the pizza boxes back with a small nod of thanks, then turns to Maddie and says, “don’t worry about it.

“Plates?” he adds, holding the boxes up for context. 

Maddie nods. “Countertop,” she says. “Kitchen.” 

Eddie breezes past her, taking the inviting scents of yeast dough and tomato sauce with him. 

Chim hands over the tablet and asks, “beer?” 

“Uh,” Maddie says. “Also kitchen. Fridge.” 

“Clever,” he replies, then follows on Eddie’s heels. 

Maddie watches him go, and Abby recognizes the smitten look in her eyes. She’s got all the same tells of fluttering lashes and quick, furtive looks that Buck does. Once he’s out of earshot and Buck and Abby step closer, she confirms it.

“He is so cute,” Maddie whispers with a wide-lipped, besotted smile.

“Yeah, he gets that a lot,” Buck replies, with a kind of nonchalance that surprises Abby. She’s known Buck and the rest of the 118 long enough to know Buck and Chimney have a habit of picking on each other, and Abby can’t understand why Buck isn’t rising to the bait, even if Chim is out of earshot. 

Suddenly, it’s a lot clearer when he adds, “you should meet his kid, though.”

Maddie frowns at the same time Abby does, and Abby’s glad Buck has his back to her, that he doesn’t see her reaction. She’s not jealous, per se, but she’s not unaffected. There’s a feeling of _something_ , just under her ribcage, an arhythmic flutter, like whatever it is wants to punch a hole in the middle of her sternum and fly away. 

“Wait,” Maddie says, her confusion evident in her voice. “Chimney has a kid?” 

“N-no,” Buck stammers, and Maddie’s expression morphs from confusion to exasperation. She heads for the kitchen, head shaking, even as Buck continues, “I-I thought you meant...” 

He trails off, clearly at a loss, then mutters, “Chimney?” 

Abby comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist. He shifts to cover her arms with his own, and Abby sighs as he gently threads their fingers together. 

“I don’t think Eddie’s gotten a _cute_ since he first started shaving,” Abby says. She pats Buck’s stomach in consolation and turns her head to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Good try, though.” 

“Yeah, but, Chimney?” Buck says again, a bit pathetically, with a sweep of his arms. 

Abby chuckles. She rounds Buck’s side and takes his outstretched hand. “Alright,” she says. “Let’s get you a beer.” 

Buck goes willingly, easily as she drags him along. The loud, boisterous laughter from the kitchen is a bright, welcome sound, and Buck barely takes two steps forward before the crease in his brow dissolves, and he’s all smiles again. 


	9. Shannon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy oh boy this chapter just really _did not_ wanna happen. In my original outline, I was just kinda like "yeah, and stuff with Shannon just sorta... happens the same" but then I realized, while I really liked the potential of Shannon's character, and her history and relationship with Eddie and Christopher, I didn't think it was actually executed all that well. Some things felt rushed to me, while others felt like the never really got explored, so I realized I had to do my own version of things, given that this is a canon rewrite anyway. I just didn't really know what that version was. I'm still not 100% sure, but I'm much closer now, so yay! 
> 
> Also, now that I'm over this hump, I should be back to once a week updates, since I actually the rest of the upcoming bits of the story that aren't Shannon-related fully fleshed out. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience, folks! And if you like this update, do consider leaving kudos and comments! They really mean a lot to me!

Half of Eddie’s heart sinks like lead to the bottom of his stomach while the other half lodges itself in his throat. 

He has to get in touch with Shannon. 

He thinks about it the whole way home, about how he hasn’t talked to Shannon in over a year, hasn’t seen her in almost two, isn’t even sure she knows he’s in California, let alone that he’s a thirty-minute drive away. 

He doesn’t want to call her. It tastes bitter on his tongue, the words _I need your help_. He doesn’t need her, can’t need her, because she’s the one who left them. It should be on her to reach out. She should be the one desperate to reconnect. Instead, all she’d been was desperate to get away. 

Chris is with Carla – Eddie’s shift starts in a few hours, and she offered to take him straight from school. He’s got his cell phone gripped tight in his fist, so tight his knuckles ache, and he stares down at Shannon’s contact on his phone. 

There’s a part of him, listening to the shrill, high-pitched ringing against his ear, that isn’t even sure this is still a good number, isn’t sure, if she did change it, if she’d have let him know. 

She picks up on the fifth ring. 

“What is it? Is Christopher okay?”

She doesn’t bother with a hello, doesn’t ease in with small talk or pleasantries, like the only thing they have left to say to each other is their son’s name, and maybe it is. The ball in Eddie’s throat burns, but he can’t decide if it’s because it’s trying to force its way up, or if he’s trying to force it back down. 

Maybe it’s a combination of both. 

“He’s fine,” Eddie says finally, hears the scratch in his voice and hopes she doesn’t. “He is why I’m calling, though. I need you to do me a favor. Do _him_ a favor.” 

Shannon clears her throat on the other end. “Might be hard to grant a favor from eight hundred miles away but I can see what I can do,” she replies. 

Eddie sighs, squeezes shut his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. His elbows dig into his knees where he’s sat, hunched over, on the edge of his bed, and the ache of it grounds him. “That’s part of it,” he says. “We’re in LA.” 

Eddie hears her intake of breath, the sharpness of it, like a slap to the face. 

“What?” Shannon croaks. “When? For how long?” 

“Since April,” Eddie says. “I applied to the LAFD–” 

Shannon cuts him off there. “April?” 

Eddie sighs. “Look, Shannon.” 

“That was six months ago,” she continues, and Eddie hears the venom in her tone. “Why are you only telling me this now?” 

“Hey,” Eddie snaps, rising to his feet and jabbing out with a finger, even though he knows she can’t see him. She’s always been good at getting under his skin. “You’re the one who didn’t notice, for six months, your own son moved out of state. People can’t sneeze anymore without the whole world knowing about it, so what’s your excuse? What, did you block my entire family on Facebook?” 

Shannon laughs, but it’s bitter and hollow. “Wow,” she says. “That’s low. Make it my fault.” 

“You think it’s mine?” Eddie retorts, and she must see his point, or otherwise not want to argue, because she doesn’t try to defend herself. 

“What’s the favor?” she asks. 

Eddie sits. “There’s a private school,” he says. “It’s nice, good programs, and half the regular tuition price with the grant Chris qualifies for. But before they officially enroll him, they need to meet with you.” 

“Why?” Shannon asks, after a beat of silence. 

Eddie shakes his head. “Because, Shannon,” he says. “You’re his mother. And, on paper, we’re still married. Which apparently means I don’t get to make these kinds of decisions without you.” 

It’s like pulling teeth to say, like driving needles under the beds of his nails. He’s been doing just fine making decisions for the past two years without her. Chris doesn’t need her. They don’t need her. 

Except that right now, they do. 

“Okay,” Shannon says. “Then set up the meeting. I have Wednesday afternoons off, if they can make that work.” 

Eddie’s brow furrows. “That’s it?” he asks. He wasn’t expecting acquiescence, an easy offer to help. Not when she’s the one who ran away. 

“What did you want, Eddie?” she replies. “A fight?”

Eddie clenches his jaw. “I thought maybe you’d have questions about the school. Or, I don’t know, _conditions_.” 

Shannon laughs again. It isn’t any lighter. “How selfish do you think I am?” 

“I don’t know,” Eddie says honestly. “You tell me.” 

Shannon breathes heavy, a high sound like the air’s been forced through her nose that rattles over the speaker. “I’m not gonna make trouble for you. Just text me the date and the address and I’ll be there, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Okay.” 

She doesn’t say goodbye either, gone before Eddie knows it, the soft chime of a dropped call lilting in his ear, then silence.

* * *

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” 

Eddie’s hesitant – knows he sounds hesitant – standing next to Buck at their lockers the next morning before their shift. He’s twenty minutes early, a regular occurrence for Buck, but something Eddie hardly ever manages with a child to gobble his time like a fun, animal-shaped snack. Still, the night before, Eddie hardly slept, thinking of Shannon, and the appointment she’s scheduled to have at Christopher’s prospective school in two days’ time. He was up before his alarm, restless and unsettled, and had Christopher out the door and dropped off at school just as the doors opened. 

“Kinda sounds like you already did,” Buck replies with a cocky, sideways grin. “But I’ll give you another one, free of charge.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “How generous of you.” 

Buck closes his locker and spins on his heels, pressing his back against the cool metal and hitting Eddie with the full force of his gaze. Early morning sunlight pours through the open doors, through the clear panes of glass, and turns Buck’s hair to gold, feathering out around the edges, lighting up the tips of his eyelashes where they’re paler than the root. 

“You have some experience with reunions,” Eddie hedges, busying his hands with nothing in the depth of his locker to keep this nervous energy hidden. “Romantically, I mean.” 

“Not a question, but yes,” Buck replies. 

Eddie twists his mouth. “Shannon’s back,” he says. 

Buck freezes, then straightens to his full height, turns again to look Eddie head-on. “She reached out to you?” he asks. 

“I reached out to her,” Eddie corrects. Buck’s mouth falls open, wide and surprised. He sways into Eddie’s space, and Eddie holds up a hand to cut him off before he jumps to conclusions. “Not the way you think,” he says. “I just need her to get in touch with this school Chris is looking at. They need to interview both parents.” 

Buck crosses his arms over his chest, worries his bottom lip. “Is she gonna do it?” 

Eddie huffs a laugh. “What?” he says. “Are you gonna pretend to be my estranged wife if she doesn’t?” 

Buck flushes into his hairline. “Something tells me I don’t quite look the part,” he says. 

Like his words are an invitation, Eddie’s eyes track Buck up and down, from the broad span of his shoulders, to the places where his biceps strain the cuffs of his shirt, down his chest and the bulk of his core, to the thickness of his thighs and the way they fill out the legs of his pants. 

“Nah,” Eddie agrees. The walls of his throat feel tacky, the back of his neck suddenly hot. “Not really.” 

Buck smiles, redness sitting high on the apples of his cheeks. “I could put Abby up to it, though,” he offers. “I’m sure she’d be happy to help.” 

“What’s some light fraud for a friend?” Eddie teases, the heat in his face replaced with a sudden tension in his belly he doesn't quite understand. 

“Exactly,” Buck says with a smile, leaning forward to knock Eddie’s shoulder with his own, and Eddie lets the contact move him, pulls his hands out of his locker and finally swings is shut. 

“She said yes,” Eddie blurts. 

Buck’s eyebrows raise. “Oh,” he says. “ _Oh_. Well, that’s a good thing, right?” 

Eddie nods. “I guess so, yeah.” 

“Except, you don’t sound convinced,” Buck says. He tilts his head, a little to the left, eyes narrowing, an expression Eddie’s come to learn means he smells bullshit. Eddie’s never been great at lying, but even so, Buck sees right through him better than anyone ever has. Eddie wonders why it’s so easy for him, if he’s got a tell he doesn't know about, or if Buck’s just that good at reading people. Probably, it’s the latter. Eddie’s seen Buck’s people skills in action on enough calls to know he’s got a particular talent for staring past the mask a person puts on and looking straight into the heart of them. 

“It’s just weird,” Eddie says. “Being in touch with her again. It’s been– it’s been two years. She left Texas and said she’d come back and then never did, and now on Wednesday, she’s just gonna be there again, like none of it happened, you know? We’ll play happy couple, and Chris’ll get in, and then, I don’t know, man. I don’t know what happens after that.” 

Buck furrows his brow. “What do _you_ want to happen after that?” he asks. 

The question hits a nerve, and Eddie tries not to flinch when he asks it, but still does. “I don’t know if what I want is even possible anymore,” he replies. 

“Which is?” 

Eddie stares into a point in space over Buck’s shoulder, can’t look him in the eye if he’s going to be vulnerable, but can’t swallow his pride enough to hang his head and stare at the ground, either. 

“I want it to not matter,” Eddie says through the grit of his teeth. “That she left. Us. _Chris_. I want to see her and not be angry with her. I just don’t think I can, man. That’s why, I just – I gotta ask. How do you move forward with someone who left you behind?” 

He feels like an ass the second the words leave his mouth, for comparing Shannon and Abby that way, for painting a picture in which their sins are parallel. Abby was never Buck’s wife, or the mother of his child. Even in a world where she never came back, she would never have been Shannon. 

Buck is quiet, something hazy, something withdrawn, stealing the usual shine from his eyes, leaving them matte and dull like buffed sea glass. There’s a thin little line between his brows where they’re starting to pinch, and Eddie wants to rub it out with the pad of his thumb until it’s smooth again, until Buck no longer has that troubled look in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “I never should have–”

“No,” Buck cuts him off with a shake of his head. “Eddie, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Eddie tries again, but Buck disagrees. 

“It is,” he says. “You’re right, you know? She was gone a lot longer than I thought she’d be, than we talked about. There were these times when I didn’t– man, I didn’t know if she was gonna come back at all. Times when she didn’t either.” 

Eddie swallows thick. “But, you guys are good now.” 

It’s not meant to be a question, and yet, his tone is borderline interrogative, through no conscious choice of his own. The true question he meant to ask, the _how_ , is still understood. 

Buck shrugs. “We talked,” he says. “A lot. About how everything went down, about why it happened the way it happened. Okay? I heard her out, and she heard me out, and we understood each other, even if things still hurt.

“Because, you can’t,” Buck continues. “You can’t make anything better trying to pretend it never happened. Denial doesn’t fix things. Communication does. Even then, it can’t solve everything, but if there’s even a scrap of anything left to save, that’s how you do it.” 

There’s a tightness in Eddie’s chest, and he opens his mouth to say – _something_ , what, he’s not sure – but the words catch in his throat as Hen swings the door open with a cheerful greeting and makes a beeline for her locker. 

Instead, Eddie leans forward and knocks Buck’s shoulder with his own. “Thanks, man,” he whispers. 

Buck smiles at him, soft in a way Eddie doesn’t know how to handle when he’s feeling this raw. 

“Anytime.” 

* * *

Seeing Shannon again is formidable. 

Emotions hit Eddie, all at once, like a ten-tonne wave. He can’t get his head above water long enough to even put a name to them, isn’t sure if it’s regret, or anger, or relief he’s feeling strongest, the whole turbulent mess sweeping his legs out from under him and pulling him out to deep water. 

She looks just like he remembers, except not at all. Her hair is longer, not the blunt bob she used to wear. She has bangs, and she’s lost weight, and any remnants of bleached honey blonde have been cut away. She wears it wavy now, too, doesn’t flatiron away the lazy, meandering curls she passed on to their son. 

Eddie greets her in the parking lot, doesn’t offer her a hand out of her car, but doesn’t keep her at arm's length as they walk, side by side, to the main entrance. 

“You look good,” Eddie tells her, because it feels appropriate, since she’s going to an interview. There’s something personal about it, too, something intimate, even as he tells himself he’s not using the interview as an excuse. 

Shannon smiles softly. “So do you,” she replies. “Not that I’m surprised.” 

Eddie’s stomach somersaults. “Thanks for doing this,” he says, before he has a chance to say anything else. 

“Thank you for calling,” she returns. “I know I’m probably the last person in the world you wanna see, let alone ask for help, but thanks anyway, for letting me do this for him. It’ll feel nice to do something right for once.” 

Shannon keeps moving, the words rolling casually, if a little bitterly, off her tongue, but Eddie stops in his tracks, catches her by the elbow to force her to do the same. Her pretty yellow dress swishes around her ankles as she stops just as abruptly. 

“What are you talking about, _for once_?” Eddie asks. 

Shannon shakes her head. “Come on, Eddie,” she says. “You know what I mean. Don’t make me say it.” 

Eddie frowns. “No, Shannon,” he says. “I don’t. You’re not gonna hear any arguments from me, what you’re doing right now, abandoning us without so much as a word, it’s the worst thing you’ve ever done. But for five years, you were there. You did everything right. So what do you mean, _for once_?” 

She blinks hard, and Eddie can see the way unshed tears clump her lashes, make the soft, mossy green of her eyes a vibrant emerald. 

“Please,” Shannon says, shaking her head. “All a mother’s supposed to do is protect her child, but the first thing I ever did when I brought him into this world was hurt him. I did this to him. And no amount of praying, or doing internet research, or taking him to see specialists, is ever gonna change that. And I don’t know how to live with that.”

She’s practically shaking, a single tear rolling down her cheek and falling off the point of her chin, and she whispers again, soft and broken like she’s in confession, “I don’t know how to live with that." All Eddie wants to do is wipe the dampness off her cheek, so he does. 

“You didn’t do this to him,” Eddie says, soft as he can while she shakes her head against his palm, but he doesn’t let go. “Shannon, you didn’t. You don’t give a kid CP. It just happens.” 

“I couldn’t protect him from it, either,” she says. 

“Which isn’t the same as being responsible.” 

Shannon sniffles, but the fight slumps out of her. Eddie strokes his thumb across the jut of her cheekbone, and lets her head press heavy against his touch. 

“Is that why you didn’t come back?” he askes, soft and broken, too. 

“It felt so good to be away from everything,” she says. “For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was suffocating. And I didn’t wanna go back. And then I felt like a monster, because who wants to abandon their baby. But I did. I wanted to, and I was so ashamed for wanting to, and the longer I was gone, the more it felt like the shame might kill me if I ever tried to go back.”

Shannon’s breath hitches as another tear escapes past the curtain of her lashes, then another, then another. The wind leaves Eddie’s lungs in a rush, and he presses their foreheads together, fingers curling around the back of her neck, the touch intimate, like that intimacy might take away some of her pain. He’s angry with her – _furious_ – but the loudest voice in his head is the one screaming at him to make it stop, to make all this hurting just _stop_ , so he holds her. 

“I’m sorry, Eddie,” she hiccups. “I’m so sorry.” 

And Eddie shushes her, presses his thumb against the corner of her jaw and shares the air between them until their chests rise and fall in synch. 

“It’s okay,” Eddie murmurs. “Christopher is okay, and I’m okay, and everything’s gonna be okay.”

He kisses her, there in the parking lot, for the first time in two years, and everything is still submerged, life holding him underwater by the ankles even as he thrashes and struggles, trying to break through to the surface so he can finally – _finally_ – take a breath. He thinks he understands what it meant for Shannon to be suffocating, because he’s suffocating too – he's _drowning_.

Her lips don’t feel like fresh air, or home, but there’s enough familiarity in them to keep him alive on something tainted and stale, for at least another breath. 


	10. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware of the months-long gap between updates but we're just... not gonna acknowledge it.

A molasses-slow wave of uncertainty crawls up the back of Buck’s neck as Maddie asks their waitress for a second IPA with a bright, bubbly smile. 

He thought it was strange when she suggested a karaoke bar, not that Maddie can’t sing – she’s good, even. Growing up, their bedrooms shared a wall, and Buck spent most of his childhood listening to muffled, private concerts, favourite verses of Destiny’s Child, Alicia Keys, and Christina Aguilera sung over and over until their lyrics lost all meaning. But Buck hasn’t heard her sing since she left for college, and a small part of him can’t imagine this version of her, with fuller hips, and new wrinkles, and the fading trace of a wedding band on her finger singing now. 

“Who’s the beer for?” Buck asks, eyeing his sister from across the table with narrowed eyes. Abby’s fingers tickle the nape of his neck, a gentle touch that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. 

“Oh,” Maddie says, unbothered, like it’s an afterthought. “Chim’s just parking.” 

“Chimney?” Buck replies, the crease deepening between his brows. “You invited my coworker?” 

Maddie rolls her eyes. “I invited a mutual friend. Sue me.” 

Buck wants to delve deeper into the matter, but doesn’t get a chance. Maddie catches sight of Chim at the door and signals him over. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Chimney says as he approaches the table. His smile is sideways, and nervously apologetic, and trained entirely on Maddie, who dismisses his concern with a wave of her hand. “I was practically bumper to bumper the whole way.” 

“And here I thought, if anyone would know the secret to beating LA traffic, it would be a firefighter,” Maddie teases. 

Chim chuckles and shakes his head. “But, you see,” he says. “Therein lies the secret. There is no beating it. You just have to embrace the gridlock.” 

Buck feels the frown tugging at the corners of his mouth the more he watches them, the more Maddie laughs and bats her eyes and he slowly puts two and two together. 

“Are you hungry?” Chim asks, and Maddie replies, “should we get that thing we got last time?” and Buck can’t stop himself from asking, “last time?” even though neither of them are paying him enough attention to notice.

Abby’s soft laughter shakes Buck’s arm where she’s pressed beside him on the bench seat. Her chin digs into Buck’s shoulder as she leans in to whisper in his ear, “just be happy for them.” 

After a round of finger food and drinks, wherein Abby holds up their end of the conversation while Buck internalizes his freak-out about his best friend and his sister _getting acquainted_ , Maddie leaps up from her seat and tugs Chimney by the arm, coaxing him over to the karaoke signup table for _at least one song, pretty please_. 

Buck slings his arm around Abby’s shoulder and watches them, cutting an excitable beeline through the crowd with Maddie’s fingers wrapped around Chim’s right bicep. Abby leans into his side and watches them, too. Despite not being able to see her face, Buck is sure her expression is softer – fonder – than his. 

“Did you know this was going on?” Buck asks, taking the last sip of his IPA while he waits for her to answer. 

Abby hums, a taciturn sort of confirmation. “Didn’t you?” she replies. 

Buck stammers. “I-I didn’t– I mean, no. It’s not like either of them said anything.” 

“Buck,” Abby sighs. “Maddie talks about Chim all the time.” 

“Around me?” he asks. 

Abby shrugs, her shoulder digging against his ribs. “More so at work, I guess,” she says.

Buck shifts, and Abby turns to look at him, finger scratching lightly against his abs until he forces himself to swallow down the strange sort of hurt he’s suddenly feeling to meet her gaze. 

“She’s not hiding anything from you,” Abby says. She’s got a knack for reading him that unsettles him, sometimes. “I think she just wants to take things in her own time. You knew her in her old life, before she got to start over, to really let herself be happy. Of course it’s gonna be harder talking about it with you. Your opinion is the one that matters most.” 

Buck clears the sawdust from his throat. “It’s not like I’d give them a hard time,” he murmurs, pushing the base of his glass through the ring of condensation on the table and scrutinizing the wet trail it leaves behind. “Of course I want her to be happy.” 

“Which she knows,” Abby assures him. “It’s just a lot easier to know something, passively, than it is to actively acknowledge it. Give her time, she’ll tell you where things are with Chimney when she’s ready. She did invite him to come out with us tonight, didn’t she?” 

The sound of microphone static and shuffling feet catch Buck’s attention, and he scrunches his mouth as he glances up to watch Chim and Maddie scramble excitedly on stage. “I’m starting to think maybe _we’re_ the ones who got invited to join _their_ plans.” 

Abby follows his gaze and chuckles. She reaches up to thread her fingers with Buck’s, catching the hand draped over her shoulder and pulling it close to press a delicate kiss against his skin. “I love this song,” she says softly, just barely audible over the sounds in the bar, and Buck hums his assent. 

They stay on the bench seat at their table, pressed back to chest, watching as Maddie and Chimney belt the words to Kenny and Dolly’s _Islands In the Stream_. They shimmy, and sway, and exchange coy little glances, and Buck lets himself relax for the first time since Chimney arrived. He understands Abby’s point, watching Maddie’s smile make perfect, pink spheres of the apples of her cheeks. She has something good with Chim, and if she’s not eager for a misplaced comment from Buck to burst the perfect bubble of whatever they’re building together, he understands. He’s spent so many years disapproving of her partner – even if for good reason – that he can see why she’s gunshy. 

This, though? This, Buck doesn’t pick apart.

“They’re good,” Buck says absently, into the gentle waves of Abby’s strawberry-gold hair. “Together.” 

“Yeah,” Abby agrees. “Really good.” 

* * *

Bile rises, acrid and thick, up the vice-like channel of Buck’s throat as the engine rolls to a stop outside the gates of the house in the Hills. 

He sees the older man pinned between the heavy SUV and the unyielding iron bars, knows that between the time the 118 got the call and now, twelve minutes have passed, and even someone young and in peak physical condition would have low odds of survival. The man is snowy pale, his cheeks sunken and hollow as the absence of tension in his muscles allows for the skin to sag, exaggerating the bones in his cheeks and the hook of his nose. 

“Damn it,” Chim sighs, heavy and laden with regret, as they jog side by side to the body, soft enough so as not to be overheard, but Buck hears it like a sonic boom. “I hate when we’re too late.” 

There’s a second man, in an activewear jacket with shock white hair, waving them over frantically with one hand, the other gripped tight around pale, waxy fingers. “Please,” he says. “Please, it’s my husband. I-I don’t think he’s breathing.” 

Bobby shoots Buck a wary look over his shoulder, one Buck recognizes well. Everyone has an area where they shine in this job, and for all Buck likes to preen and pretend he’s the most badass among them, he’s never more on his game than when he’s consoling a loved one. The look Bobby gives him tells him all he needs to know; it’s a skillset he might soon need to put to use. 

“Sir,” Bobby says softly, placing a hand on the older man’s arm as he comes up behind him. “I need you to step back so my team can work.” 

He’s reluctant to move at first, but Bobby’s hand stays steady on his arm, and after a moment, he lets the victim’s hand drop and staggers back from the vehicle. 

“What’s your husband’s name?” Bobby asks, keeping the same soft, level tone as Chimney and Hen move in to check the man’s pulse and search for other signs of life, despite knowing almost certainly at a glance that none will be found. 

“Mitchell,” he offers, and his voice shakes, but it’s so incredibly strong with emotion it hits Buck like a punch to the gut, nearly doubles him over. 

“Alright, Mitchell,” Hen says, pulling back an eyelid with her blue-gloved thumb as Chimney steadies his neck, shining a penlight to check his pupillary response. “Can you hear me?” 

Buck watches her shoulders tense, almost imperceptibly, knows it to be one of her tells, when the call’s gone south but the family’s watching, and the only grace she has left to offer them is another few moments of hope.

“Buck,” Bobby says, just loud enough to get Buck’s attention. He gestures to the distraught widower with a jerk of his head, and Buck gets the message, taking a step back to stand by the elderly man’s side, arm wrapping around his shoulders. 

“Let’s step back a bit and give everyone some space, alright,” Buck suggests, and mutely, the man nods and lets himself be directed. “I’m Buck,” he adds in the same slow, reassuring voice. “What’s your name?” 

“Thomas,” the man answers. He’s shaking like a leaf under Buck’s arm. “Is he going to be alright? He wasn’t breathing.”

Buck swallows past a lump. “My team is doing everything they can.” 

Thomas shudders. “That’s not an answer,” he says, then, sure as knowing, he adds, “he’s not going to make it. My god.” 

Speaking the words out loud seems to unpause time, rupturing the careful bubble in which tragedy’s been suspended. Hen steps back, looks over her shoulder to catch Thomas in a meaningful stare, and shakes her head. He collapses at Buck’s side, knees weak with grief, and Buck holds him up, leads him to the back of the parked ambulance where he can sit, where Buck can warp him in a blanket and open a bottle of water to offer him a reprieve from the way sorrow’s made his mouth go bone dry. 

The water helps, too, with the hiccupping sobs that wrack Thomas’ weary frame. By the time Bobby and Eddie have Mitchell’s body braced on a backboard and are lowering him to the ground, an eerie sort of stillness has overtaken him that Buck can’t bring himself to disturb. Instead, he sits with Thomas in the bereft, unmoving silence, until the older man breaks it. 

“When we got married,” he whispers, his voice so breathy and thin, Buck strains to hear it. “We thought, _what the hell? We have so little life left, we might as well live_.” 

Buck’s hand, resting open-palm, steady against the knobs of Thomas’ spine, trembles as Thomas takes in a huge, wavering breath, the kind exertion forces into your lungs to replenish all that’s been wrought. 

“That was Mitchell,” he says. “Always daring the clock.”

They watch as Bobby and Hen unfold a white, pristine sheet, watch as it flutters against the wind, the sound of it cutting like the crack of a whip. They drape it across the prone stillness of his corpse. Even Buck, who thrives in comforting others, can’t stand to keep the line of contact open between them. He draws his hand away from Thomas’ back. 

“And me,” Thomas says, impassioned, somber. “I always followed along. All those foolish things we did. We only ever wanted to go together. That’s love.” 

The declaration sits heavy on Buck’s chest, a solid, aching weight he can hardly breathe under. Thomas’ breaths are heavy, too. Laboured. 

“I’m sorry,” Buck says, and it feels so insignificant, feels miles away from conveying the depth of his sympathy, but it’s all he’s got. “I really am.” Then, because he’s moved to – by some force bigger than himself, bigger than he can explain – he adds, “I guess I can only hope that what I have ends up being that good.” 

Thomas shakes his head. “Things don’t end up good, son,” he says. “You make them good.” 

The advice hits Buck in a way he isn’t expecting, doesn’t know how to process on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of a shift. When Thomas draws in a ragged breath and asks for a moment alone with his husband, Buck is happy for the distraction, helping him to his feet and escorting him attentively to where Mitchell’s body’s been laid. Thomas lowers himself to his knees on the cold, unforgiving concrete, and Buck steps back hastily, making a beeline to a scattering of photos and the overturned scrapbook from which they spilled to afford Thomas’ goodbye its privacy. 

The photo Buck picks up tugs at his chest where the ache is strongest. Two young men smile at the camera, dressed plainly but classically, holding each other close. It's printed on modern photo paper that shows no signs of age, but the image itself is yellowed and squared off in a way that suggests it’s an older polaroid that’s been digitized for safekeeping. 

Thomas and Mitchell. 

In their youth, with their whole lives ahead of them, optimistic in a way Buck can’t imagine when the world was stacked so heavily against them. But they found their piece of happiness, didn’t they? Their corner of the world where nothing outside the sphere of their devotion and their love for each other mattered. It’s overwhelming, glancing through photos and stacking them neatly, slotting them back between the pages of the scrapbook before the breeze catches them and blows them away. 

From over his shoulder, Buck hears a soft _thump_ , and he glances back, worried Thomas has lost his footing trying to come to a stand. Instead, he sees Thomas slumped over his husband’s body, and Buck aches again with the enormity of his loss. 

For a moment, Buck pictures Abby, laid out on that stretcher, with a brace around her neck, skin loose, and wan. She’s over fifteen years his senior, and despite the risks inherent in his job, she’s likely to go before him. He imagines the way he would grieve her, and knows he would fare no better. 

Gently, Buck kneels at Thomas’ side, and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Thomas,” he says softly, kindly, then, when Thomas fails to respond, he shakes him, and he slumps, unresponsive, under the weight of Buck’s hand. 

“Eddie,” Buck shouts, turning Thomas onto his back, fingers tracing the length of his neck, searching for a pulse. “Cap!” 

They’re at his side in an instant. Eddie bags him while Buck starts on compressions, but the effort to resuscitate him is short-lived. Buck sees Eddie and Bobby shake their heads at each other while he continues to pump, to work the blood through Thomas’ body in place of a heart that’s given up. 

“Buck,” Bobby interjects, placing a gentle hand over Buck’s own to still him. “He’s gone, kid.” 

The devastation hits him like a brick wall. Eddie places a hand on his shoulder. The only points of warmth where he’s suddenly gone so cold are Eddie’s hand on his arm and Bobby’s against his knuckles. 

Buck sits back on his haunches and breathes, feels the emptiness of his lungs against his ribcage. He stares down at where Thomas and Mitchell are laid, side by side. Where, despite the fervor of Buck’s compressions, and the way he rolled him over, their hands are still clasped. Thomas’ last conscious action. To hold the man he fought every day to spend his life with. 

“That’s love,” Buck says softly, because he doesn’t know what else to say, because anything that isn’t a regurgitation of someone else’s words might come out as a sob.

“Why don’t you go sit in the rig?” Bobby suggests, not unkindly, but without room to argue. “Let us take care of this.” 

Buck doesn’t have it in him to argue, anyway.

He’s barely in the truck a full minute when Eddie slides in beside him. His hands are trembling, and Eddie reaches out, but lands on the point of his knee instead, broad palm hot through his work pants. It grounds Buck anyway.

“This one is hitting you pretty hard,” Eddie observes, though it’s hardly necessary. 

Buck swallows. He knows why it’s hitting him so hard, but he’s unsure if he wants to discuss it with Eddie – now, or at all. He doesn’t hide his sexuality, but he doesn’t lead with it. The difference between an easy camaraderie and a hostile work environment can be a vague use of pronouns sometimes, and Buck isn’t sure he has the emotional reserve to get into it if it ends up the latter. 

“It feels kinda personal,” he offers as a safe half-truth. 

Eddie nods, like he’s going to let Buck have it. Then, after a brief pause, he taps his thumb pensively against the edge of Buck’s kneecap and asks, “what about them stuck out to you?” 

Because, of course, he’s worked with Eddie long enough. Past a certain point, it’s easy to tell apart the vague sadness everyone feels after a bad call and the poignant pain of a call that hits someone’s triggers, but this is a trigger Eddie’s never seen before. 

Buck sighs. Maybe he doesn’t owe Eddie the truth, not exactly, but it feels close enough that he wants to be honest. “Maybe it’s selfish,” he says. “But I just can’t stop thinking about myself in their shoes, you know? They spent their whole lives together, and they couldn’t even get married until just over a decade ago.”

Buck’s nerves buzz through him like a livewire, and he bounces his knee enough that Eddie takes back his hand. His posture shifts, sitting up straighter, more attentive, like he’s on high alert, while Buck’s still bent at the waist, back bowed. 

“Everything they could have had, and they didn’t get it until it was too late,” Buck says. He gnaws his lips. “I don’t know,” he says. “It just doesn’t seem fair.” 

Eddie’s quiet for a moment. Buck doesn’t glance back at him, but he _feels_ him stewing in thoughts, choosing his words. “Do you feel like that could have been you?” he asks finally, and it’s such a specific question, Buck knows Eddie’s caught on to what he’s implied. 

Still, he needs to lay it out. “Yeah,” Buck says. “I’m, uh– I’m bi.”

He does glance up at Eddie, now, but Eddie’s posture hasn’t changed, still upright, still attentive, still impassive. 

“Theoretically,” Buck presses on. “If I was their age, or even just living somewhere else in the world right now, I wouldn’t get to have what I have with Abby with another man. And that sucks to remember.” 

Slowly, Eddie nods. “I’m sure it does.” 

They’re quiet again, so quiet a cold sweat beads across the nape of Buck’s neck. “Hey,” he says, shifting awkwardly to meet Eddie three-quarters on. “This doesn’t, uh” – he licks his lips, chooses his words – “weird you out, does it?” 

Buck isn’t sure if it’s his question or his hesitant tone of voice, but something snaps Eddie into motion. He turns, too, to meet Buck’s gaze and says emphatically, “no, Buck. No way.”

Buck’s shoulders slump, and Eddie lets out a breath, something sharp and full of frustration, maybe even a bit of regret. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says. “I’m sorry this call – this world – makes you feel like this. And I’m sorry I didn’t do more to make you feel like you could talk to me about it before now.” 

Resolutely, Eddie’s hand returns to Buck’s knee, and Buck blinks back the sting of tears that cloud the corners of his vision. 

“But you have me in your corner, brother,” Eddie says. “One hundred percent.” 

He moves his hand from Buck’s knee to the back of Buck’s neck, where his touch is warm, and solid, and chases the chill of fear and uncertainty away. Buck laughs, an abrupt release of tension, and a single tear slips past his lids and clings to his lashes. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, and Eddie jostles him teasingly, and Buck feels light again for the first time since pulling up to the scene. 

“Shut up,” Buck grumbles, and Eddie laughs, too, throws out a token, “I didn’t even say anything,” that makes Buck laugh, again, in a genuine way this time.

“Do you wanna stay in here until we finish up?” Eddie asks.

Buck shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says. “Let’s go help see them off.” 

* * *

Buck gets home ten minutes before Abby. 

It’s a rare night when their shifts end at the same time, and while Buck would normally be waiting by the door with a glass of chardonnay and an offer to carry her to their waiting bath, he’s on the couch instead, toes drawn under his thighs, feeling solemn and quietly reflective.

She must see something troubling in his expression, because she badgers him forward without a word, forcing enough space between his back and the armrest to wrap around him like a starfish, splayed legs on either side of his hips, head buried in the curve of his neck. 

Abby kisses him once, soft and warm against his hammering pulse. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she coaxes.

“I had a brush with death today,” Buck replies, and when Abby tenses, he quickly adds, “not personally. It was an older couple. One of the husbands died. Car accident. The other, I don’t know what happened. He just went, right after him.” 

Abby’s slow exhale tickles the hair at the back of his neck. “Oh, honey,” she sighs. “I’m sorry.” 

Buck nods. “It just got me thinking – and I don’t want you to think this is the only reason I’m bringing it up – but it did get me thinking,” he says. “About kids, again. Whether we’re going to have them, and when.” 

Abby shifts against him. “Did you change your mind?” she asks. 

“No,” says Buck. “Honestly, if anything, I’m more sure than before. I wanna make plans for a future with you. Not just before it’s too late, but because I love you, and I can’t see a reason to wait. If you wanna start trying now, I really am ready.

“And if you don’t,” he adds. “You can tell me that, too, and we’ll make other plans. But I don’t wanna wait to make plans anymore, whatever they are. I’m in this with you. So, what do you want, Abby?” 

Buck feels a firm, insistent tug on his arm, and he shimmies around to face Abby. Instantly, she takes his face in her hands and kisses him, deep, and desperate, and a little bit filthy. 

“I wanna have a baby with you,” she says when she finally pulls away, glassy-eyed and out of breath. Buck can’t contain the smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth, and it must be infectious, because it’s a smile Abby mirrors. 

“Are you sure?” Buck asks. 

She kisses him again, a mashing of bared teeth and uncooperative lips. “I’m so sure.”

In a rush, Buck swoops her up off the couch and into his arms. Instinctively, her legs wrap around him, arms curling around his neck, and he kisses her hard and wet. Her hips roll against him, keeping time with the way his tongue slides against hers, and he can’t hold back the way he groans. 

“I think we should get things started, then, don’t you?” Buck suggests between kisses. 

Abby throws her head back to laugh, a breezy, indulgent sound, and Buck busies his mouth against pale, yielding skin. “Buck,” she shrieks, then moans as he bares down with his teeth. “I still have my IUD in.” 

“Practice, then,” Buck suggests. 

He nips further down the column of her neck to the hollow of her throat, and Abby moans again. “Practice,” she agrees. “Lots and lots of practice.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](https://asexual-fandom-queen.tumblr.com/)


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